


Instruments of Destruction

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Cybertron [9]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Cybertron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The walls of Iacon have crumbled and the final battle has begun! At Megatron's bidding, the Decepticons have launched an all-out assault... under the command of Starscream! While Optimus Prime risks his very existence by traveling into the Matrix, the Autobots must defend themselves - and stay alive - in a conflict that has but one outcome: mutually-assured destruction!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Starscream! Get in here!”

He cringed, mid-stride, as the domineering voice echoed down the hallway. This was not how he’d planned to start his day.

“Now!”

Starscream hurried along the gnarled, almost organic-looking corridor that led to Megatron’s command centre. Oh, how he loathed their orbiting base. The Decepticon leader had somehow caused the long, cylindrical battle cruiser to _grow_ out of Unicron’s body, during the brief time he controlled the gigantic Transformer. It was, as a result, a creepy and unnatural place to be. All things considered, Starscream would rather be hiding out on Charr or something.

He pushed his way past Divebomb, who lounged beside a doorway. The avian Terrorcon squawked in protest. “Watch it, Vehicon,” the bird sneered, talons flashing in the dim light. “You’re not as important as you’d like to think, you know.”

Starscream turned on his heel, thrusting his face into Divebomb’s masked features. “What are you talking about, bird brain? You should know better than to be insubordinate to a superior officer… not to mention your _superior_ , full stop.”

Divebomb snickered. “Keep on telling yourself that, ‘screamer,” he said lightly. “Just because you command the aerial Decepticons doesn’t mean you rule everything in the sky. There’s always an exception.”

“Such as?”

“Heh. Well now. Such as _me_.”

Starscream grabbed the mouthy Terrorcon by the neck and shook him – hard. “Listen to me, you sanctimonious piece of slag,” he hissed. “It’s really quite simple. You’re a bird, and I’m a jet fighter. The only way you could _ever_ take me down is by getting caught in my air intake – and even then, I’d grind you up and spit you out. So whether it’s walking down hallways, flying through to sky or just plain existing, _you_ stay out of _my_ way.”

“Perhaps you misunderstand me, Starscream,” boomed the voice from down the corridor. “That was not a request… _it was an order_!”

Oops. Now mallet-head was ticked off. Starscream pushed Divebomb into the wall and took off, not bothering to watch the Terrorcon pick himself up. He quickened his pace, rounded the corner and peered into the gloom of the command centre. Megatron’s nerve centre seemed to be permanently in darkness, as if one of the diagnostic-bots had misplaced all of the light bulbs.

“You caterwauled, oh mighty Megatron?” he said, mixing his sarcasm with false subservience.

Two points of fire flared in the darkness. Megatron’s eyes glowed red with fury. “Yes,” he said, his tone even despite his obvious anger. “I wanted to speak with you about a few things, Starscream. In particular, about the battle on Earth.”

 _I’ll tell you all about the battle on Earth, you overweight glob of grease_ , Starscream thought to himself. _I’ll fill you right in about the work your soldiers are doing, the fire-fights we’re walking into, the sickening alliances we’re forced to make on world after world, all to achieve a goal none of us believe worthwhile. All of which we’ve done, incidentally, while you’ve sat here in the dark and refused to answer any of our questions!_

Many of the Decepticons called Starscream a scheming backstabber – some even said it to his face – but they were short-sighted fools. He just had a better understanding of how the universe worked. Even Megatron didn’t get it, not really. Starscream was the best choice to lead the Decepticons and, by extension, all the beings in the galaxy. By working to unseat bucket-head and take command, he was simply expediting practicality. And the sooner the rest picked up on that, the better.

“What is it you wish to know, _great one_?” he crooned. Outright defiance would be unwise at this juncture – he couldn’t see Megatron, save for his optics. For all he knew, the wily old buzzard had both his shoulder cannons zeroed in on the centre of Starscream’s cranial casing. A small measure of diplomacy was advisable, given the circumstances.

“You can start,” Megatron growled, “by explaining how you failed to return with the Planet Key… and yet have become the first of the Decepticons to possess a Force Chip for themselves.”

Starscream’s sump dropped in his chassis. This was going to be unpleasant.

\-----

“Snarl! Quit daydreaming and get move on! This no time to see sights!”

Once upon a time, he’d been called Fang Wolf. He’d sat at the right paw of his leader, the dreaded Flame Convoy, in the camp of the Purple Masks. The planet of Animatros had been theirs by right, and they had enforced that right with claws of steel. He’d not always agreed with his leader’s decisions, and came to realise the pack would flourish better under his rule. War had followed, but it had been glorious – a battle to shake the heavens with its violence, blood and savagery.

“I think the puppy dog’s glitched out on us, boss. Heh – maybe he’s homesick.”

Home. Animatros was home – a place of green fields, of twisted and tangled jungles, of dense foliage and blue skies and hunting grounds teaming with the weak. This place, this _Cybertron_ was an aberration, a horrid freak of nature. Mile upon mile of jagged metal, stretching out under a sky of perpetual night, with nothing save the putrid glow of electric lights illuminating sterile plains. Perhaps his people had come from this place, millions of lifetimes ago, but he felt no kinship with it.

“Really, guys, there’s no need to taunt him. Snarl will need time to adjust – Cybertron is a very different sort of place to what he’s used to.”

Yet he had thrown his lot in with the Red Masks, the Autobots, and pledged to help save their world. It had seemed like a good idea at the time – Flame Convoy was gone, Animatros was barren, his friends were dead – but now Snarl, he who had been Fang Wolf, wondered if he’d not made a terrible mistake.

“Cybertron to doggie-bot,” a guttural voice yelled into his ear. “What, you on break or something?”

Snarl looked up into the harsh features of Grimlock, the Dinobot commander. Though his speech was primitive and his fighting style unrefined, the grey-and-gold mechanoid was a valiant and honourable warrior. Indeed, he was one of the few beings Snarl respected – his colleagues Swoop and Swerve the only others.

They were preparing for their journey into the heart of this cold world, a mission assigned by the one called Optimus Prime. Swerve was fumbling with a long, thin weapon of some kind, his dexterity impaired by his severe hand injuries. The red-and-black robot smelled through his fingers, with senses keener than the wolf’s own. He had sacrificed that power to save them all – including Snarl, who had been his enemy at first. The timid scientist was nobler than a hundred other beings.

Swoop and Grimlock, meanwhile, were rifling through long boxes of ammunition and armaments. The metallic pteranadon was a valiant and uncompromising fighter, driven by a blood-red hatred for the Terrorcon called Divebomb. Though outclassed, Swoop refused to yield to his flying foe which was, in Snarl’s opinion, the sign of a true warrior. Swoop had said he wanted “something loud and messy” in his wing-mounted weapons pods, and was dedicated to the search.

“Hellooooooooo there,” Grimlock said, waving a thick black hand in the wolf’s face.

“Ah… sorry, Grimlock,” Snarl stammered. “Swerve is right. I’m feeling a little… disconcerted.”

“It’s to be expected,” Swerve said amiably, dropping his rifle at the same time. “You don’t have access to your full databanks yet. Given time, you’ll feel more yourself.”

“While waiting,” Grimlock said, “maybe you find weapons for mission, huh?”

Snarl nodded and began pawing through a box, ruminating on his lie. Millions of years earlier, he had lost his war with Flame Convoy. To the victor went the world and, to the loser, a lobotomy. The mighty dragon had pressed his claws into Fang Wolf’s brain and pulped its delicate circuitry. Combined with the violent Energon fluctuations on their world, he failed to recover… until Swerve and the others had rescued him. They’d named the amnesiac wolf Snarl – a moniker he’d kept, even after his memories returned. His friends had no idea that he remembered, only too well, his past… and his true nature.

Some would call him a traitor. Snarl preferred to think of himself as a realist.

Realistically, he’d been better suited to lead Animatros than had Flame Convoy. Here, on this world of metal, oil and darkness, he could not lead. That would require knowledge of the terrain, the scent of the enemy, sensing the tracks that led to their burrows and hunting grounds. All of those things would take time – which was, of course, in short supply in the middle of a war. It would be some cycles before he could even think of making a play for leadership of the Autobots.

Still, it was training he’d have to undertake, for all their sakes. He well understood what made a good leader, and he saw none of those qualities in Optimus Prime.

\-----

“Tell you what,” Starscream said. “You turn on some lights, and _then_ we’ll talk.”

No one had seen Megatron since the quest had begun – the despot had divvied up Vector Prime’s stolen map and retreated into his command centre. He’d not even bothered to contact his forces during their missions. That had left some groups floundering, one team prisoners of the Autobots, and all of them failures.

The Decepticons had not recovered a single Planet Key – not for lack of trying but for lack of decisive, involved leadership. Not only was it a bad way to run a war, it was totally unlike Megatron. The Decepticon leader was anything but a coward. This… absence… had to be part of his plans, and Starscream wanted some insight.

Megatron chuckled. “Take my advice, Starscream – you really don’t want to see me right now. The lights stay off… for your _protection_ , more than anything else.”

“Uh… right.” Rattled, Starscream relayed the Earth conflict as only he could – talking up his role, loudly bemoaning the cowardice of Sharkticon, harshly criticising the sacrificial methods of Shockblast. At the same time, he made sure to skip some of the details… especially those pertaining to the long-lost Soundwave, and his centuries-long interface with the Planet Key. The communicator’s knowledge, locked within his pointed blue head, was something Starscream wanted to keep to himself.

Megatron made no sound. There was little or no indication he was even listening – his red optics hovered in the centre of the blackness, moving not even a micron. Starscream felt his fluids chill. The scene inside the command centre mirrored that outside – the black hole left by Unicron’s destruction. Starscream was playing the role of Cybertron… and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Very well,” the leader said at last. “If that’s what you say happened, Starscream, then that’s what happened.”

The aerial Decepticon was indignant. “How dare you doubt me? Haven’t I proven to you over the vorns that… _what did you just say?_ ”

A white crescent moon split the blackness – Megatron was smiling. “That’s the problem with having a rebuttal ready, my overeager lieutenant. Your audio sensors get deafened by the whining of your jaw servos.”

The smile vanished. “I have no reason to doubt your report, given the Decepticons involved in the mission. They weren’t the most reliable group I could have supplied you with but, as you’re well aware, we’re short on soldiers right now.”

Starscream’s jaw hung slack. “This is a joke, right? I’m supposed to smile, relax and take a step closer so you can _blast_ me for my incompetence.”

Again, dazzling white shone in the darkness. “I think we’re long past those days, you and I. In fact, it might even be time for you and I to discuss the future… and your starring role in the events that are about to unfold in this pitiful galaxy.”

“My what now?”

He heard a sigh. “Starscream, I have not survived this long by being an idiot. Of all Transformers, you should know I’m a long-term thinker. My plans and schemes span centuries rather than cycles, eons rather than astroseconds.

“Every soldier who has worn the Decepticon mark has done so because I have known their ultimate destiny. Be it to lead a battalion or die screaming as cannon fodder, I know the fate of every Decepticon the moment I lay optics upon them.

“And you, Starscream… schemer, traitor, back-stabber, deceiver, malcontent… your destiny has always been…”

Starscream winced, readying himself for a volley of annihilating laser-fire.

“… to serve as my successor.”

\-----

Optimus Prime stood but a few hundred paces away, talking softly with two of his soldiers. Snarl recognised them as Nightbeat and Downshift – the duo ordered to reactivate the purple Planet Key – and pricked up his metal ears, listening in.

“Not a damn thing,” Downshift was saying. Snarl watched the small lights adorning the engineer’s head blink in time with his words. “I tried radiation, radio waves, photon bursts, gamma rays, time displacement … even a set of jumper cables.” He held the Key with one hand and slapped it with the other. “Whatever made this piece ‘a junk glow can’t be replicated by Autobot science.”

Snarl was not surprised. He thought of his own Force Chip, hidden beyond sight until he called for it. The disc was no mere device or tool, it was a part of his Spark… a manifestation of his will. That none of these Cybertronians had chips was testament to their weak natures. They lacked the Spark to fuel such passions.

“Then we’ll have to take a more drastic option,” Prime replied. “Metroplex’s life force powered the Key until he was murdered. I shall journey into the Matrix and commune with Metroplex’s Spark. Hopefully, I can convince it to merge with the Key, just as Evac did on Earth.”

“Have you blown a gasket?” Downshift said, alarmed. “Goin’ into the Matrix isn’t a walk in the park, Optimus! It’s a one-way ticket for pretty much every Spark on Cybertron and, oh yeah, you kinda have to be _dead_ to get an invitation!”

“And,” Nightbeat added, “there’s no guarantee Metroplex even joined the Matrix, like Cybertronians do. He lived millions of light years away on another planet – who’s to say his Spark didn’t end up somewhere else, or just evaporate?”

Optimus shook his head. “Primus created the Matrix and, prior to shutting down, linked all Transformer life energy to it,” he rumbled. Sparks come from and return to the orb. Primus did that _before_ its first creations left Cybertron and, therefore, they would be linked thusly.” He tapped the grille on his chest. “Metroplex is in here, somewhere. I’m certain of it.”

“Certain, _if_ you believe Vector Prime,” Downshift sneered. “Lately, there’s been no real reason to do that.”

Optimus placed a hand on the engineer’s shoulder. “Right now, old friend, we have no other choice,” he said. “My long-time connection with the Matrix affords me some… concessions… unavailable to the rest of our race. I’ll put myself in stasis lock, journey into its confines and speak with Metroplex, leader-to-leader. It’s our last real chance of having three of the Keys ready to go.”

“At least do it in the med bay, Optimus,” Downshift pleaded, “with someone there to monitor your vital signs. That way…”

Optimus chuckled. “All right, Downshift, all right.” He waved his hands in mock surrender. “Nightbeat will keep an eye on me – he’s our resident expert on Gigalonia, and so can brief me on the way. Magnus can assume command until we return.”

Snarl turned away, anger bubbling in his breast plate. Optimus Prime was a fool. The wolf could feel the coming battle in his struts, knew the Purple Masks would strike very soon. Not only had he divided his forces to go on treasure hunts, Optimus had removed _himself_ from the conflict at its most critical stage. It smacked of either stupidity or cowardice – neither of which could be tolerated in a leader.

The wolf took a lethal-looking spiked mace from the crate at his feet. It was attached to a length of chain that felt satisfyingly thick in his hand. He wrapped the chain around his lupine-head fist and pulled it taught. Chains were, of course, only as strong as their weakest links… just like the Autobots.

He had sworn allegiance to these weaklings, but he had broken allegiances before with no regrets. He’d damn himself to the Inferno before he died for the whims of another deluded fool. Snarl would go on the mission, as “ordered”, and recover Flame Convoy’s personal Force Chip.

What he did with it then, however, would depend on the situation.

\-----

“Ask yourself, Starscream, why I would keep a vocal, unrepentant threat to my power and my person in my ranks. Ask yourself why I allow you to return to your place at my side, time after time, no matter your failures or laughable coup attempts. Ponder, won’t you, the reasons for your continued existence when others who have crossed me have died in a blaze of searing, annihilating pain.”

It was a good point, Starscream conceded. Others who had gone against Megatron’s will… most recently, the late, unlamented Scorponok… had either been murdered outright or skilfully manipulated into “accidents”. Yet Starscream had tried to unseat his leader on numerous occasions, as far back as the siege of Iacon, and had come through every time. He’d been punished, of course… often beaten within an inch of his life… but he’d always regained his role as second-in-command without question.

He’d never considered it before, but there had to be a reason. “It’s because,” he said haltingly, “because you want me to learn from my mistakes?”

The burning red optics flushed green. The crescent-moon smile returned, then broadened into outright laughter.

“Hopefully, Starscream, some of your stupidity will fade with time,” Megatron roared. “No, you demented fool! You are still on-line because you _fascinate_ and _intrigue_ me.

“I can easily see that, were our roles reversed, I would work just as hard to assassinate you and steal your army. You remind me of myself, as I was in the early days, and I _admire_ you because of it.”

His optics turned red again. “We Transformers are an ageless, but not immortal, race. I have grown weary of the mega-vorns of fighting and struggling, and I long for respite. For reasons of my own, Starscream, I am certain we are about to end this war once and for all, grinding the Autobots to dust in the process.

“Once that is done, I will finally be crowned ruler of Cybertron. My responsibilities will change, and my role will be more demanding… as befits the future emperor of all creation. No longer will I be able to concern myself with my army – which is where you come in.”

Megatron leaned slightly out of the darkness, just enough for Starscream to catch sight of his chin. Was that a hint of purple metal he saw?

“This cycle, Iacon will fall. The Autobots will die, and Cybertron will be ours. You will see to that, Starscream… for you are now _commander of the Decepticons._ ”

Starscream’s optics almost rocketed from his steel skull. He couldn’t find the will to speak, and his knee joints wobbled beneath him. _After all this time… all these plots and schemes… Megatron respects me and is giving me what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve always deserved!_

“Wipe them out, Starscream, while I enact our true plan deep beneath the surface of Cybertron. When the Autobots are no more, join me in the chamber deep beneath the Manganese Mountains, and we will divide the spoils of war. To you will go the army and the freedom to set forth and conquer in the Decepticon name. To me will be paid tribute – modest tribute, of course – as you build an empire of your own. Together, my prized student, we will overtake the universe!”

His proclamation echoed through the command centre, bouncing off the walls and washing over Starscream. The waves of sound anointed the aerial warrior, bathing him in the waters of emperors and kings. He had been given his due at last.

Starscream dropped to one knee, bowing deeply before Megatron. It was uncharacteristic of him… no, of who he _had been_. Starscream the traitor was gone, replaced at last by Starscream – crown prince regent of the Decepticon empire!

“I shall not fail you… _Emperor_ Megatron,” he said reverently. “Iacon falls tonight, and the Autobots shall be ball bearings by the rising of the moons!”

He rose, spun on his heel and ran from the command centre, his Spark pulsing with excitement. He _knew_ Megatron was no coward – while they’d all been fighting, their leader had worked out a secret, deceptive plan that would win the day.

Oh, how clever was his mentor!

Starscream would lead the battle on the surface. That would distract the Autobots and win him the acclaim of his new troops, ensuring easy transfer of their loyalties. Megatron, meanwhile, would be free to complete his life-long shadow war against Cybertron. Both their desires would be granted in one fell swoop.

As he hurried along the corridor, he again passed Divebomb. This time the Terrorcon stepped back, clearing the way. Starscream grinned. Everything was, at long last, as it should be.

\-----

_That was a waste of time and energy_ , said the voice inside Megatron’s head. _A pointless exercise achieving nothing of value!_

“You miss the joke,” Megatron told the whisper in his mind.

He flexed his fingers and rose from his command seat, standing upright for the first time in many, many cycles. He stretched out his arms and popped his shoulders back into place, enjoying the sound of meshing gears. A quick scan revealed all of his systems… including the new ones… were operating at peak efficiency. It was time.

“Starscream now believes he has been handed the keys to the kingdom,” Megatron said to the ghost in his processor. “He thinks he is about to be rewarded for centuries of disloyal service, repaid for his treachery with great kindness instead of retribution. He believes all of these things because of his ego – anyone with half a processor would see through the tissue-thin veil of my lies. Indeed, they are similar to the half-truths used to initially forge the Decepticon army. True to form, Starscream is more concerned with being important than being right… his focus is the glory of the future.”

Megatron walked deeper into the shadows, making his way to the very core of the orbiting Decepticon base. There waited a small vessel that would, when the time was right, take him to the surface and to his own manifest destiny.

“Like Scorponok before him, Starscream will lead the Decepticons because it suits my purposes. Unlike Scorponok, he will command a suicide run – a face-to-face confrontation with the Autobots that neither side can possibly win. So deadlocked are our forces that mutual annihilation is the only possible result. While the fools wipe themselves out, I will enact the true master plan.”

He grinned maliciously “What Starscream does not realise is, thanks to me… _he has no future_.”


	2. Chapter 2

There is a legend about the walls of Iacon. It claims the high barricades that surround the golden city were forged from the super-dense heart of a star – by Primus itself. The legend says the walls are, therefore, unbreakable and impenetrable… that they can and will turn away all attempts at assault.

It is a legend coined by the Decepticons – those who were ever on the outside of the walls. For millions of years, they dashed themselves against the gleaming monoliths to little avail. Indoctrinated, as they were, to believe in their superiority over all things, the Decepticons assigned mystic qualities to the walls to better account for their endless failures.

The Autobots knew the true secret of the walls: mound after mound of casualties. Iacon’s walls had, in truth, been breached countless times. It was only through the efforts of brave volunteers that repairs were made before invasions could be mounted – volunteers who almost always died performing their duty. Each victim’s name was inscribed into the golden metal, right above the place they fell. In some spots, fifteen hundred names were etched one above the other.

Decepticons had set foot in Iacon only once, four Earth years earlier. Megatron and his elite troops had barrelled into the northernmost city, wreaking havoc and obliterating all in their path. They had not been repelled as much as they had chosen to retreat – the timely awakening of the Mini-cons, far away on Earth, saving the Autobots from a final, annihilating assault. Some of the more cynical Decepticons saw this as another facet to the legend – that Primus had revived the Mini-cons just to spare the Autobots their ultimate destiny.

The Autobots, meanwhile, saw it as pure dumb luck.

The walls had been repaired since – this time with no loss of life. Hoist and Smokescreen, the twin construction vehicles, had worked hard to remove all trace of the near-invasion. The damage was such the twins had been working almost non-stop for half a vorn, right through the Terran conflict, to make the walls gleam once again. The Unicron Battles had but added to their burden, as had the near-constant attrition caused by the black hole orbiting Cybertron.

“This is like rolling a boulder up the Manganese Mountains,” Smokescreen said gruffly. He was more warrior than architect, but accepted his role within the Autobot army because it served the greater good. “The minute you lose concentration, it all rolls down on top of you.”

“Yeah,” Hoist agreed. Like his brother, Hoist would have preferred to be fighting on the front lines – or joining the quest for the Planet Keys – than slamming rivets into mile-high sheets of golden steel. “And it flattens you in the process.”

He ran a blue-and-white hand over one of the names on the wall. It marked the death of Refute, his long-time Mini-con partner and good friend. They’d spent hours, back in the glory days of the siege, scrapping ‘cons and comparing battle damage. “Ya call that a dent?” Refute would bellow, his voice far louder than his frame would suggest was capable. “Geez, I got worse scrapes than that climbing out of my stasis pod!”

Hoist smiled, catching sight of Smokescreen in the corner of his optic. His orange-and-blue brother was also grinning. The twins and Refute had been a formidable team, using their Powerlinking abilities to the full both in construction and destruction. They were still proud of the work they did each and every day, but it wasn’t as satisfying without the “little loudmouth” by their sides.

“Say there’s something in all this,” Smokescreen murmured, “and the old legends are true. You know, that we all go back to the Matrix when we shut down. Do you think we’ll see Refute when we get there?”

Hoist laughed. “If we don’t, we’ll sure as scrap _hear_ him.”

The joke broke their melancholy and reduced them both to fits of laughter. Memories of times past flooded their processors as their chortling filled their audio receptors.

Even had they not been distracted – even had they been on their closest watch – neither Autobot would have detected Soundwave hovering above them. A shadow in his jet mode, Soundwave silenced the mirth – and ended two lives – with quick shots from his under-wing weaponry. Hoist and Smokescreen dropped to the ground, the clang of their bodies drowned by the echoes of their humour.

Soundwave transformed and landed, neatly, on the Autobot side of the Iacon walls. The achievement meant little to him – he’d never believed the legend, after all – and he went straight to work. He had all the time in the world, because the Autobot forces were spread so thin across the planet. Though Iacon was their stronghold, the Autobots had never given up the idea of one day retaking the rest of their world, and so kept small resistance cells in key locations. That, combined with the “elite’s” focus on the Planet Keys, left the walls unguarded for long periods.

He opened his chest compartment and removed two large barrels. He set them on their ends, hundreds of metres apart, then transformed and took to the air. They were devices of his own invention – little more than large tumblers capable of generating extremely low-frequency vibrations. Soundwave activated the barrels and they _thrummed_ to life, shaking and bouncing in place.

It took but a moment for the bass line to move up into the golden walls of Iacon. They splintered, spider-webbed, then shattered musically and threw shards for kilometres. The bodies of Hoist and Smokescreen were buried beneath hundreds of tonnes of debris, the name of Refute visible for just a moment in the cavalcade of ruin.

Soundwave transformed once more and dropped lightly onto the wreckage. Despite his stoic demeanour, he allowed himself a small smile. Megatron had created the trans-temporal portal technology to breach these very walls, millions of years ago. That technology was responsible for Soundwave’s unwilling trip to Earth – and his current amnesiac state. Now, he had destroyed the walls that started it all.

Amusing, how things worked out.

He tapped the side of his head and sent a small, tightly-encoded data pulse into the sky. Moments later, he heard the humming of distant engines as Starscream rose over the horizon. His dagger-like jet mode was at the very front of a massive phalanx of aircraft, metal beasts, tanks and construction vehicles that charged toward Iacon. Thanks to his enhanced hearing, Soundwave could already hear his new commander’s first words to his 200-strong armada.

“Decepticons!” Starscream cried shrilly. “Kill everything that moves!”

\-----

“To be honest, I don’t care _how_ secure Iacon is. You’re travelling by bullet train, and that’s the end of this conversation.”

Ultra Magnus ignored the grimace that crossed his brother’s face. Yes, Optimus Prime was the strongest, toughest, bravest, smartest, most competent Autobot in the history of all existence. He was also a pig-headed idiot who refused to take proper precautions. Risking his Spark in the Matrix was one thing, but risking a trip to the main medical centre – far away in a relatively unguarded section of Iacon – was sheer stupidity.

As Evac had said, mechs like Magnus were built to keep the Primes in the real world – remind them of responsibility over esotericism. And the most responsible way of reaching the med-cent was by bullet train – underground, heavily armoured, super-fast bullet train.

“This is ridiculous,” Prime muttered as the long, cylindrical capsule pulled into the station, “but I’ll concede to it if it’ll make you happy, little brother.” He raised his fist into the gap between them. Magnus slammed it with his own – their life-long sign of affection and respect. “I know I’ve left the Autobots in good hands, Magnus.”

“If those hands are any good,” Magnus replied, “it’s because you taught them to be.”

He took a final, cautionary scan around the bullet train station. Never considered an essential service, it was in a constant state of disrepair. Its roof still bore the damage of a thousand errant shells and stray laser blasts. More than any other structure, it crumbled under the inexorable black hole. Magnus wondered if it would still be standing by the time the Autobot leader and Nightbeat returned from their mission.

A diode on his wrist flashed twice. Magnus raised his arm to his face plate and flipped open his communicator. There was a flash of static, then an image of Scattorshot filled the tiny screen. “Oh man, oh man, oh man,” the half-track tank wailed. “Big bot, you’d best get yer skid plate back here, pronto! Somethin’s… come up.”

Magnus felt a presence by his shoulder – Optimus had stepped away from the train and was peering into the communicator. “What’s going on, Scattorshot?” he asked.

“Um… well, Optimus,” the smaller Autobot said. He stepped back from the screen and gestured behind him. The screen was covered with thousands of tiny dots that, with every passing astroseconds, grew into a Decepticon armada.

“It looks like every freaking Decepticon in the face ‘o creation decided to come give us a visit. An’ they’re through the walls already!”

Behind them, Nightbeat cursed.

Magnus didn’t hesitate. He broke the connection and turned around, shoving Optimus physically toward the bullet train cabin. As he passed Nightbeat, the Earthforce commander snagged him with one hand and dragged him along. “You two have a train to catch,” he said. “Right _now_ ”.

“Magnus, stop,” Optimus protested. “You don’t have enough troops to repel a force that size. Contacting Metroplex can wait, let us…”

Up in the decaying rafters of the station, something glinted. Magnus let go of his struggling friends and whirled around, snapping off a pair of shots from his Mini-con pistol. The crimson beams punctured the dim heights and detonated, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. Hardtop, the Decepticon sharpshooter, fell from the rafters and slammed noisily into the tracks, blasted into stasis lock.

Magnus thrust Prime and Nightbeat into the bullet train. “No more arguments,” he said forcefully. “Go make sure there’s a Cybertron left for me to defend.” He looked at his brother, holding his gaze evenly. “Till all are one.”

He slammed the gull-wing door shut and punched a button on the train’s hull – it shot out of the station at high speed, crushing Hardtop’s legs in the process. Magnus watched it go, then transformed to vehicle mode. His gun, the Mini-con called Prowl, changed into a small red-and-blue car and zipped along beside him, weaving through and increasing hail of weapons fire. The Earthforce commander pushed his speedometer to the limit – he had to get back to his troops.

\-----

“WegotDecepticonsatthegates, Decepticonsintheair, Decepticonsinsidethewalls, DecepticonsDecepticonsDecepticons! Ifwebeat‘emoffthewallsthenthey’restillintheair. Ifweshoot‘emoutoftheairthenthey’restillatthegates. Sowheredoesthatleaveus? Nowhere, that’swhere!”

As succinct as the tactical summary was, Tow-Line had no time for it. “Blur, will you shut the frell up?” he roared. “I can barely hear the reports coming in!”

Blur didn’t stop to answer – he raced away along the top of the ramparts, firing at the unending flood of Decepticons. Tow-Line saw a few fall… far, far too few…and others swarm into their positions. Having been at war for nine million years, you would think the ranks of Autobots and Decepticons had been thinned out somewhat. The horrific sight in the skies above put paid to that dour thought.

“… I said can you hear me?” shouted a voice from his view screen. Tow-Line glanced down into the panicked face of Storm Jet, leader of the Autobot resistance cell in Kaon, the former Decepticon capital city. “All our ‘cons just cleared out – took off, voom, into the skies! Kaon is ours, and we didn’t have to fire a single shot.”

Tow-Line grimaced. “I’m so slaggin’ happy for you kid,” he growled, “now fire up your afterburners and get to Iacon, stat! All of your ‘cons decided to fly north for the winter, and we’re right in their path!”

He killed the conversation, cycling the data by rote. Though Megatron and his inner circle were based off-world, his appointed warlords still held tenuous sway over most of Cybertron. At least they _had_ until a few breems ago. Storm Jet’s report matched others coming in from all over the globe. Crosswise and the Spychangers had called from Uraya to say their strike mission had been a success – because the headquarters they’d raided was empty. Tyrest was no different, according to Ironhide – he and the Omnicons had taken a grim fortress with no casualties. They’d just blown off the doors and walked inside.

It made no sense. The Decepticons had committed all of their resources to an all-out assault on Iacon – the strongest position in the Autobot army. Between automated defences and on-site soldiers, the sides were evenly matched, which meant…

“Mad,” said a voice behind him. Tow-Line turned to see Ultra Magnus rumble alongside him. The Earthforce commander transformed, firing as he did and knocking a few more ‘cons out of the sky. “Stands for mutually assured destruction. One of the terms I picked up on Earth. Megatron’s committed us to a course of action that will result in everyone – Autobot and Decepticon – being wiped out.”

Tow-Line nodded. “Just what I was thinking,” he said grimly. “Magnus, I’ve studied bucket-head for a long, long time now and I have to say… this isn’t like him.” He pointed to another view screen, showing Starscream at the head of the invasion. “And it sure isn’t like Meggie to give ‘screamer the keys to the kingdom, either.”

Magnus scanned the skies, counting invaders. “Something’s changed,” he said tautly, “but figuring out what won’t do us much good. Patch me through to the commanders of the Planet Key teams – we need to get things moving before we’re melted down.”

The journalist’s fingers flew across a succession of keypads, linking Ultra Magnus to the internal communicators of Grimlock, Downshift and Omega Supreme.

“New orders, everyone,” he boomed. “Grimlock, take your team and hunt down the Terrorcons – they’re in this mess somewhere, likely headed for the Plasma Energy Chamber. Leave Swerve behind, I need him for something else.”

There was a short grunt and a hiss of static.

“Downshift, give Blur and Override the red Key and send them off,” Magnus continued. “Then I want you to rendezvous with Swerve and Red Alert at that… thing… Nightbeat brought back from Gigalonia.”

Tow-Line gazed across the battlefield to the ebony towers in the distance. He’d forgotten all about Fortress Maximus – the city-sized battle platform built by the insane Transformer called Blender. It was bristling with exotic weaponry.

“There’s got to be something in that hulk we can use to clear the skies,” Magnus said. “Find it, use it and keep on using it.”

Downshift chirped a quick affirmative, then broke the connection.

“Omega, rally everyone else at the foot of the Grand Oratory – everyone _except_ Scattorshot. I’ll be there in a half-breem to lead the retaliatory attack, so make sure all mechs are locked and loaded for bear.”

He drew a finger across his synthesiser, and Tow-Line killed the uplink. Magnus’ face went dark for a moment, his steel brow furrowed in pain. He sighed loudly, shook his head and then activated his wrist-mounted communicator.

“Scattorshot is going to hate this,” Magnus said heavily.

\-----

He dropped from the main fleet and turned upside down. His rotor blades slashed through a group of surprised Autobots, severing them at the neck and hips and knees and he twisted. He cackled in his usual humming, buzzing way. “Zzzilly Autobotz,” he crooned. “There no need to go to piecez juzt cuzz Buzzsaw come to play!”

Straightening up, Buzzsaw flew back into formation alongside Divebomb. He was doing his best to impress the Terrorcon. Though both were members of Predacon’s cult, the avian killer had a beautiful beast mode while poor old Buzzsaw was stuck looking like a neon-yellow helicopter. He so desperately wanted to reformat his body… maybe an insect, or some sort of wasp… but was terrified of the pain involved. That, and he was pretty low down the True Path food chain. He wanted to fit in, and making friends with Divebomb would surely help.

“Zzzo you think we break record for zzzingle day killz?” he chortled.

“Ask someone who gives a slag,” Divebomb said tersely. “I should be down in the Plasma Energy Chamber with the others – or at least backing Battle Ravage up! Why Predacon didn’t get me out of this turkey detail I’ll never know!”

Buzzsaw tried to be soothing. “Now now, birdie-con, don’t get upzzzet,” he said. “Predacon zzzaid there be too much zuzpicion if we all vanizzzed. He and Cruel Lock handle whateverzzz down there while Inzzzecticon, Battle Ravage and uzz play happy-happy Decepticonzzz.”

Divebomb grunted. “That may be all right for you, rotor brains,” he snapped, “but I didn’t risk my tail feathers on Animatros to miss out on the big play!”

He twisted his angular head from side-to-side, scanning the ground below. “Sure, staying alive as we passed through the first auto-gun barrage was a challenge, but this is _boring_! There’s no thrill in picking off groundhog targets while the mech next to you gets blown out of the sky. I want something to do, someone _worthy_ to kill! I want…”

The Terrorcon squawked in panic and then was _gone_ – vanished right before Buzzsaw’s optics! He scanned down and around to no avail, then looked up… and almost gagged.

Swoop, the flying Dinobot, had slammed into Divebomb from below, throwing them both up into the stratosphere. They tumbled and scrabbled, tearing at one another’s armour with beaks and talons. Buzzsaw couldn’t hear what they were saying but it was bound to be unpleasant – those two had hated one another for as long as he could remember.

He changed vectors and moved away from the battling birds as quickly as he could. Currying favours was one thing, but getting in the middle of a feud like that was plain old dumb. And if there was one thing Buzzsaw wasn’t, it was…

With a sickening thud, he ran straight into the top of the Tower of Pion. The impact jarred a circuit and he transformed, unwillingly, to robot mode. For a second he hung in mid-air, then his purple and yellow arms scrabbled for purchase on the smooth metal. His fingers dug in and he held fast, deliriously happy and relieved.

His segmented optics caught sight of someone far below… a figure in white and blue that was pointing something at him. He magnified the image and found himself staring into the stoic, unblinking eyes of Snarl.

“Ulp!” he cried. “Oh no… oh please… doggie-bot not shoot poor Buzzsaw while Buzzsaw is hanging by a…”

A golden missile struck the dead centre of his chest, shattering the hapless Decepticon. Still conscious, Buzzsaw watched as his arms, legs, fingers and torso fell past his head and thudded into the ground. He yelped as his head bounced and rolled down the side of the tower, then dropped into the centre of the Energon Pools and began to sink.

“Oh well,” he sighed. “At leazzt poor Buzzsaw get one lazzt drink before he goezzz.”

\-----

The stench of battle wafted through his nostrils and into his systems. Snarl could feel his oil-lust rising, even without the bestial affects of the Animatros air. _Huntnomore_ was coming, for thousands of brutal warriors – and a few idiots, like Buzzsaw – and he would deliver it to as many as he could. First, though, he had a mission to complete.

Swoop had caught sight of Divebomb and abandoned them, depleting their ranks. Grimlock had offered a… colourful… opinion of his partner’s decision, but Snarl applauded it. Better to sink teeth into an eternal enemy than waste time on a gambit that may or may not work.

“That just typical,” Grimlock sighed. “You have to expect that, don’t you? All we go through on jungle planet, and now _this_ ”.

Snarl followed his gaze. The entrance to the Plasma Energy Chamber… the home of the green Key … was _beneath_ the Energon Pools. Meaning that, after surviving Energon overload on Animatros, they now had to swim through the stuff to achieve their mission.

Grimlock expressed more colourful opinions as he waded, hip-deep, into the shimmering lagoon. He plucked Buzzsaw’s head from the centre of the pool and tossed it over his shoulder, ignoring the decapitated Decepticon’s indignant cries. “Come on, Snarl,” he barked.

He watched as the Dinobot dunked under the surface, then transformed to his beast mode and dove in. Wolves, he reasoned, were better swimmers than robots and he’d make faster time. He needed to make sure to stay close to Grimlock… who was holding the green Key.

At the end of the day, Snarl needed the device within arm’s reach, just in case.

\-----

Were there really hundreds of Decepticons raiding Iacon? Bulkhead couldn’t be sure. Several times, he angled his hip-mounted missile launchers to take down an enemy… but he held his fire ever time. He couldn’t be sure a Decepticon was _really there_. Worse, it could have been an Autobot in his sights.

Combat Induced Neural Surge – how he _loathed_ the term. Humans would call it a mental illness. Transformers laughed and sneered and talked about “missile madness” – the condition that poisoned the processors of combat-weary soldiers. Their optics played tricks on them, as did their audio sensors. Bulkhead had almost killed two of his friends, back on Earth, and the memory haunted him.

Then again, it was all _about_ haunting, wasn’t it? If it hadn’t been for the massacre at the Imperial Amphitheatre, 8.3 million years before, Bulkhead wouldn’t be in this situation. He was the sole survivor of the Wreckers – the original Autobot commando group – and that status ate away at his very Spark. At times, he could see the faces of his dead comrades… Cliffjumper, Overcast, Scavenger and all the others… peering at him from darkened view screens, or empty windows. They pointed accusatory fingers at him, demanding to know why he lived on when they had all died for their cause, just as a Wrecker should.

Bulkhead knew these were just delusions, that CINS was over-writing his hard drive with things that could not be. That didn’t make it any easier to deal with, or function around. Medical science could not cure CINS, and so the only choice left to Bulkhead… was to remove the source of the illness.

He crept between his fellow Autobots, staying low to the ground. He watched as Rodimus leaped and rolled through strafing patterns, as Arcee loosed bolt after bolt from her Energon longbow. For a moment, he paused to watch Thundercracker go about his savage work – normally apathetic, the ex-Decepticon was tearing into his former team mates with an abandon that bordered on madness. Even Landfill, the golden behemoth from Gigalonia, was trying his hardest to fight. His shots were slow, clumsy and badly-aimed, but the mere sight of another Autobot as massive as Omega Supreme was enough to startle the younger, less-experienced Decepticons.

None of those Autobots, however, was Bulkhead’s target.

They’d been ordered to gather by the Grand Oratory but, as Bulkhead suspected, his target considered himself above the rules of mere mortals. Vector Prime, in his spacecraft mode, soared high above the Stellar Galleries. He stabbed at the invaders with bolts of blue energy, howling platitudes about Primus and the need for peace.

It was just like the old fool to preach tolerance while swinging an electro-club.

Still close to the ground, Bulkhead tensed the special hydraulics in his legs and fired internal pistons, throwing himself into the sky. His leap carried him all the way up to Vector Prime. He reached out and gripped the soothsayer’s nosecone with powerful fingers. The older robot cried out in alarm as the Wrecker drew his sword – made from his vehicle mode rotor blades – and _slashed_ the ivory hull lengthwise.

Bellowing with pain, Vector Prime angled down and headed for the ground. Bulkhead flipped up and onto the mechanoid’s back, whispering harshly into his cockpit. “If you transform right now, I’ll save you,” he hissed.

Vector Prime’s body shifted and twisted into a robot, his face wracked with pain and concern. Bulkhead pressed his blade against his hostage’s synthesiser as they plummeted, wrapping his free hand around the older robot’s head.

“You have power over time and space, or so you keep telling us,” he yelled over the whistling wind. “That means you can travel into the past… which is what you’re going to do _right now_ if you want to live.”

“Stop this!” Vector Prime commanded. “This is utter foolishness – there is an army to repel and a universe to save. It is not the time to be discussing temporal travel… or to risk both our lives needlessly!”

Bulkhead laughed, low and long. “That’s where you’re wrong, grandpa,” he sneered. “You use this time, right now, to travel _in_ time… or we’re dead. Now me, I’d welcome death – in case you haven’t heard, I’m a crazy mech with nothing but a life of glitching and delusion to look forward to. So if you want to be around for the big hero moment when the ‘cons go down… start dialling back the clock.”

“But where…”

“Eight point one million years ago,” Bulkhead laughed. “As humans would measure it. The Imperial Amphitheatre, the night the Wreckers died.” He pressed the blade into Vector Prime’s armour, drawing oil. “Only this time around, the Wreckers are going to _live_.”

\-----

Silverstreak watched the entire exchange through his ‘scope. He had no idea what Bulkhead was saying – it was a little hard to lip-read Transformers, because they had no lips – but it was clear the mech had gone stark raving loco. The gunner had no great love for Vector Prime, but they needed all hands on deck to fight off the ‘cons. Whatever else he was or was not, the old guy was handy with a sword and a blaster – and that was all that counted, right now.

He transformed into a sports car and accelerated, trying to figure out where the dive-bombing duo would land. Silverstreak had no intention of trying to catch them – heck, he had no _way_ of catching them – but he was going to be there when they crash-landed. Being a spacecraft, Vector Prime would likely survive the impact. As for Bulkhead, well… Silverstreak would play that as it happened.

The gunner sped forward, keeping his optics glued to his roof-mounted scanners as he drove. His aim was, as always, perfect – he’d intercept Vector Prime and Bulkhead an astrosecond after their slammed into the Cybertronian surface. The funny thing was, they seemed to be picking up heat as they fell, which should have been impossible in Cybertron’s oxygen-thin atmosphere. Especially during what was, really, a pretty short fall.

 _Then why the frack are they glowing like that_?

Silverstreak peered closer and saw the strange, golden light was coming from the centre of Vector Prime’s chest. It flew out and around him and Bulkhead, blurring their edges and contorting their features. The gunner shifted his attention forward and slammed on his brakes – the ground in front of him had _disappeared_ and been replaced by a deep black pit!

He swerved to the right and locked every brake pad in his body, to no avail. Silverstreak skidded right over the edge of the pit and tumbled down into it, a scream of fear ripping out of his synthesiser. A split second later, Vector Prime and Bulkhead tumbled in after him… and all was dark.


	3. Chapter 3

No one else had noticed yet, but Blur’s speed was _gone_.

The other Autobots had recovered from the effects of the decelerator laser. They were back at peak function, zipping around at their usual pace and blowing Decepticons out of the sky. Blur was right there with them, sure enough, offering his opinions in his usual rapid-fire chatter. But if anyone had looked closely, they’d see he wasn’t leaving flickering after-images in his wake. He wasn’t kicking up dust clouds just by standing on the spot. Internally he was fine but, externally, he was as slow as a normal Autobot. Not that he was about to admit it, of course.

“Ireallydon’tlikethisonebit,” he muttered under his breath. “Talkaboutbadtiming.”

He fired his plasma rifle again, the blasts glancing off the angled armour of a flying warrior. Blur was less concerned with target practice than he was his mission – taking the red Key back to its lock and slamming it into place. It should have been a three-second job… point him in the right direction, zip over to the place and blammo! Problem solved! Should have been, but wasn’t.

Each of the Keys, according to Vector Prime, had a specific “lock” somewhere within Iacon. The purple Key slotted into the topmost spire of the Tower of Pion, while the green went into the Plasma Energy Chamber. The blue Key was bound for the Underbase, while the red Key… ah, the red Key.

It made Transformers really fast and allowed Primus to overcome inertia and gravity – and therefore move in its robot form. It didn’t slot into a handy building or subterranean chamber, oh no. The red Key had to be placed into a _teeny weeny_ spot on the very edge of the Iacon cliffs.

From space, Cybertron looked like a patchwork quilt. Each of its states radiated out from one another in concentric, interlocking jigsaw puzzle pieces. Iacon was no exception. Its borders with Uraya, Kalis and Polyhex, however, were not flush in all places… creating a jagged run of cliffs along the southernmost border region.

 _That_ was where the key needed to be… on the other side of the city, on the other side of the walls and on the other side of the 200-strong Decepticon assault force that was pounding Iacon to scrap.

“Normallybeathreesecondrun, noworries,” Blur snorted bitterly. “Youcanstilldoit. Imean, whoneedstobefastinasituationlikethis? Nah, itwouldn’thelpatall. Pah.”

Override, the former queen of Speedia, pulled in alongside him. Despite his frustration, Blur couldn’t help but notice her sleek lines and thick curves. They snagged his attention in a way that wasn’t exactly normal. Now he knew why Rodimus looked at Arcee as he did. Override had made it more than clear she was… fond… of Blur. Would she feel the same if he stayed slow forever?

If he did, it was _her_ fault anyway. She’d come to Cybertron in a glorified orbital bullet, zapped him with the decelerator laser while demanding the red key… and then agreed to help anyway! Fembots were fickle, he decided. Fickle just like his emotions… because right now he couldn’t decide if he loved her or hated her.

“You ready?” she asked, her every word a challenge. Override was millions of years old – likely the first fembot – and a veteran of some pretty nasty wars. She could fight like a demon and race like a lightning bolt. Right now, she seemed determine to combine that into one mad dash to save the day.

Blur could see the red Key locked in her twin-seater cockpit, ready for insertion. As the life-long guardian of the artefact, Override had insisted she be the one to activate its fullest potential… even though Blur had won it from her in the dying seconds of the Speedia Ultimate. Taking it from her planet had sparked a destructive war – the reason for her earlier rage – and so it needed to be returned there quickly.

“Iwasbornready,” Blur said, borrowing an Earth expression. “Sure, whywouldn’tIbeready? Iwasreadybeforeyouevengothere, I’mreadyrightnowand…”

“Then _burn rubber_!” Override cried, flooring her accelerator and racing off.

Blur watched as the fembot slammed through a group of Decepticons stupid enough to get in her way. Insecticon took the brunt of the collision, his bug-like body flipping onto its back and spinning madly on its hardened shell.

He sighed, then transformed. He took off as fast as he could… barely 200 miles per hour, he noticed with disdain… in pursuit of Override.

\-----

Swerve ducked another cluster bomb. The force of the impact knocked him to the ground. He scrabbled onto his hands and knees, once again cursing the twisted, stubby digits that no longer worked properly. Intuitively he knew the metal beneath his feet was pure Cybertonium, but that didn’t matter. He missed the near-constant metallurgic data stream he used to receive through his fingertips.

Downshift roughly hauled him to his feet. “No time for prayers,” he quipped, “especially when you’re a scientist.”

“This is crazy,” Swerve sighed. “Does Ultra Magnus really think he can hold the city against 200 Decepticons… with just 12 Autobots?”

“Twelve Autobots,” Red Alert called from ahead of them, “and _that_.”

Fortress Maximus loomed before them. The monstrous Gigalonian siege engine was in its spacecraft configuration – at rest, it looked like a new city had been built next to Iacon. In stark contrast to the Autobot capital, Fortress Maximus was made of deep blue steel, highlighted with black detailing and red accessories – accessories like cannons, missile launchers and laser batteries.

Having claimed the platform from Blender, its giant-sized creator, Nightbeat and his team had somehow managed to fly it back to Cybertron… with no real understanding of how it worked. It had been moved just once since its arrival, and was being used as a temporary penal colony for Decepticon prisoners. Swerve and the others had been ordered to make it useful to the war effort… and quickly.

Red Alert slapped a control and a grey steel door slid open. The trio dashed inside and into near total silence – Fortress Maximus’ armour was so dense, it muffled the noise of the invasion.

“Spooky,” Downshift whispered.

They made their way to a ruby-red elevator and rode it up the platform’s central tower. As they passed the detention level, Swerve could hear the chattering of their unwilling “guests”.

“Lemme outta here, ya slaggin’ cowards!” roared Tidal Wave, the gargantuan pirate. “These walls ain’t so thick I can’t hear the battle outside, ya know! Turn me loose, you scrap heaps, and I promise I’ll kill ya nice and quick – just for old times’ sake!”

Snowcat and Demolishor – finally recovered from their shattering experiences on Speedia – joined the ruckus. “You’re first against the wall, Downshift!” Snowcat cackled. “Nobody blows me and my buddy up like that without some payback!”

The final two voices were unfamiliar to Swerve, but he had been told to whom they belonged. Rumble and Frenzy – the diminutive “Flyers” of Gigalonia – were in the cell opposite Tidal Wave. “We got nothing to do with these bucket-heads, youse guys,” they pleaded in unison. “Let us out and cut us a deal – we’re good fighters, we can help youse win the war! Promise!”

Wheeljack stayed quiet – for which Swerve was grateful. The former Autobot and current psychopathic killer was an expert at mind games, and the last thing they needed was more confusion. His partner in crime, the bulky Crumplezone, didn’t say anything either. Swerve doubted the Speedia native was _capable_ of speech.

“Ignore ‘em,” Downshift saidd as the elevator rose to the cockpit. “Bunch’a sore losers.”

“And wastes of our time,” Red Alert said seriously. His right hand was flew over Fortress Maximus’ consoles while his left wrist-mounted interface plugged into a data-port. “This system is totally unlike anything I’ve ever come across – not just a different programming language, but a different programming culture. I can’t even deduce why Blender would build a normal-sized cockpit for this device when his intention was to ride it like a chariot.”

“That’d be for them,” Downshift said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward Frenzy and Rumble. “Thundercracker said Blender had some sort’a alliance with the pip-squeaks, built ‘em bigger bodies and such. Maybe…”

“… it works along the lines of the Headmaster technology?” Red Alert finished the thought. “Let’s try it out.”

The engineer and the doctor went to work, typing complex algorithms into the system and checking the results. Swerve stayed a couple of steps behind them. What was he supposed to offer to the two biggest brains on Cybertron? He should be outside fighting – not that he was particularly good at that, either – rather than being a hanger-on in a glitched-out battle station.

He looked down at his gnarled, damaged hands – there’d been no time to repair them before the invasion struck. Swerve sighed… he was totally useless once again.

\-----

“Buzzsaw not uzzless, oh no! Buzzsaw _gooood_ zzoldier. Doggie-bot’zz gunzz not zztop Buzzsaw from helping True Path win the day, oh no!”

Predacon looked down and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Buzzsaw, you’re a mess,” he sighed, glancing at the broken shards of the helicopter. “How you manage to maintain consciousness once you’ve been blown to scrap is _beyond_ me.”

Cruel Lock laughed. “It’s all practice,” he said. “Considering how many times he’s been blown up, shot, stabbed, shattered, broken and slagged, I mean.”

Buzzsaw’s head sent a message to his left hand, which lay next to Cruel Lock. Four of the fingers curled back while one pointed upward – an Earth gesture the helicopter had heard about. Cruel Lock sneered and kicked the offensive digits away.

Explosions sounded nearby. “I have no time for this,” Predacon growled. “Buzzsaw, your message said something about Grimlock and Fang Wolf?”

“Hmmyezz,” Buzzsaw nodded. “Sharptooth and Doggie-bot went zzwimming in the Energon. Sharptooth zzaid zzomething about Plazzma Chamber, too.”

The cult leader grinned. Though he held the green Key and knew its connection to the Plasma Energy Chamber, he had lacked the knowledge of the device’s location. Hanging back and letting that impulsive Grimlock lumber off with a head of steam had been the best course of action after all.

His Terrorcons would fight the good fight and keep up appearances for Starscream – meanwhile, he and Cruel Lock would achieve their _true goal_. Soon, thousands of Terrorcon clones would swarm over Cybertron, eradicating both Autobot and Decepticon. Forged in the chamber, they would be as unstoppable as Flame Convoy himself, leaving only the True Path for the universe to follow!

Predacon had chosen Cruel Lock for this mission for two reasons. One, he was the best all-round soldier in his ranks – not as lethal as Battle Ravage, of course, but more intelligent than the jaguar. Two, he felt he owed his long-time lieutenant _something_ , given the wounds he had suffered on Animatros. Cruel Lock had suffered the most severe injuries while fighting Flame Convoy, and had spent much time recovering in the CR chambers. Having the velociraptor by his side, at the moment of ultimate triumph, was Predacon’s way of rewarding his sacrifices.

He pointed at the Energon Pools, and watched as Cruel Lock dove in. Stepping in himself, Predacon began to plot. Grimlock could easily be outmanoeuvred – he’d been beaten before – but Fang Wolf was another matter. Like Starscream, the Animatronian was a traitorous manipulator with more ego than intelligence. Unlike Starscream, he was ferociously dangerous and cunning. The tyrannosaurus rex would have to tread very carefully when the confrontation arrived.

Predacon looked at the war-torn skies over Iacon. _Then again, maybe it won’t be so hard,_ he thought to himself. _Fang Wolf only ever wants to be on the winning side… I doubt it will take much to convince him that is my side_.

\-----

She was dancing through the barrage. Override’s speed, her skill, her sheer driving ability was a marvel to behold. For the briefest of moments, Blur was actually happy to be slow, because it gave him a chance to _really look_ at the fembot, rather than streaking ahead of her.

The euphoria lasted just a second, rapidly replaced with bitterness. True, he was still moving too fast for any of the Decepticons to hit but, compared with his usual pace, he may as well have been standing still. Override was _miles_ ahead, two-thirds of the way to the cliffs, while he was still at the halfway mark.

Blur zipped and skidded around another “firepower shower”, in the process passing under the last of the incoming Decepticons. The skies over this part of Iacon were clear – but only because all of the buildings and structures had already been razed to the ground. If he’d transformed, Blur would have been the tallest thing in the area.

“Overrideslowitdownasecond!” he yelled into his communicator. “Waitup!”

Tinkling laughter was her reply. “Come on now – you’re faster than this. Stop playing around and get serious – there’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“BelievemeI’dabsolutelylovetobeuptherewithyouandevenbeaheadofyou,” he spat back, his resentment returning. “But _someone_ decidedtoblastthespeedouttame. Gee, Iwonderwhothatcouldhavebeen – who’dmakesucha _dumbmove_ , huh?”

Ahead, Override swerved slightly – as if his words had hurt her physically. “I told you I’m sorry about that,” she whispered into the communicator. “But that’s no reason for you to hold back. We can sort it all out later, okay?”

“Sortitout? Well, that’djustbefineanddandy, wouldn’tit, a lovelywaytopassthetime. Exceptofcourseforthefactthedeceleratorlaserhasn’t _wornoff_! I’mstillasslowasagundarktrappedinmolasses, and it’sall _yourfault_!”

He meant it as an assault, a psychic stab at the one who’d crippled him. Blur certainly didn’t expect them to be accompanied by a bolt of green light, rocketing down from the heavens and blasting into Override!

The sound of her scream echoed through Blur’s cockpit. He watched as the emerald beam sliced into her, severing her front right corner – which formed her leg when she was in robot mode. The limb fell away, taking a wheel and much of her steering with it, and bounced into the ruins. Override’s front end dug into the surface of the planet and threw up sparks. She ground noisily, painfully, to a halt.

Blur pushed his limited speed to the max, caught up and transformed. With one smooth motion, he snatched the badly-injured femme up into his arms and started running, his legs pounding the ground furiously.

“Don’ttrytotransform,” he yelled. “There’stoomuchdamage. Youneedfixingandthat’sgoingtohavetowaituntilwe’reoutofhere.”

A second beam lanced through the sky, detonating just metres behind them. More followed in quick succession, tracing the path he ran, coming closer every time. It had to be Shockblast, Blur reasoned, hanging out in orbit and taking pot-shots at targets on the ground, just as “logic dictated”.

There was no cover, nowhere they could get out of dodge, he was crippled and Override was heavy. “We’retoast,” he gulped.

\-----

“You’re ready for this?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Nightbeat nodded as he checked over the machinery one more time. He’d hooked Optimus Prime up to every monitoring device he could understand – and a few that he couldn’t. The Autobot leader was a mess of electrodes and wiring, but at least his Spark could be checked at regular intervals. Nightbeat had no desire to be the solder on duty when his leader took the big shutdown.

Optimus’ chest grille flipped open. Nightbeat shielded his optics as the Matrix of Leadership flared, bouncing sparkling blue light off every surface and giving the place and eerie glow. Prime’s hands reached into his chest cavity and gripped thick tubing on either side of the artefact – his main fuel lines.

“Half an hour,” Nightbeat said, “And then I zap you with the electro-stimulators. You’ve got thirty standard Earth minutes to find Metroplex before I bring you back.”

“Understood,” Optimus nodded. Then he laughed. “It seems like I’m the one who’s getting ordered around today.”

“You taught us too well – we’re all bossy now,” Nightbeat joked.

Optimus didn’t respond. Instead, his wrists jerked slightly and pulled the fuel lines from their moorings. The machinery around Nightbeat went berserk, scores of tones registering flat-line and screaming for emergency repairs to begin. He silenced each and every one of them, ordering them to sit back and wait. He shivered – there was nothing more he could do.

Nightbeat laid the dull purple Key on his leader’s chest, next to the Matrix, and walked away. He couldn’t bear to watch whatever was going to happen next. Seeing Optimus lying there, cold as lifeless steel, reminded him too much of…

He pulled up short. Checkpoint was in the CR chamber nearest to him. Nightbeat could see his friend’s stony faceplate through the repair fluid, optics dark and jaw servos slack. The security expert had been undergoing repairs since before they left Gigalonia, meaning he was approaching the all-time CR record. Red Alert had warned that, if the repair cycle did not finish soon, they’d have to pull the plug or risk bringing Checkpoint back as a body without a Spark – a zombie Transformer.

Nightbeat rested a hand against the thick glass. He had enough guilt without turning his unappreciated friend into the living dead. Sure, Checkpoint would barely realise the difference – he’d be a sophisticated computer program that simulated personality and intelligence, no different than the robots on a hundred other worlds. Without a Spark, though, he’d be less than a Transformer, and that would be horrid.

The detective placed his back against the glass and slid to the floor, taking a seat. It seemed morbidly appropriate for him to be guarding a glorified mausoleum, given his recent sins. Maybe he should change his name to Nemesis Prime or something.

\-----

When the darkness lifted, Silverstreak was right side up, engine idling. _And_ he was on Cybertron – he recognised the familiar landmarks of Iacon. All of which, of course, made no sense. Last time he’d checked, he was falling through some sort of Primus-forsaken pit, screaming his synthesiser out.

He transformed and took a closer look around. Things _were_ different. For starters, it was night – as the humans measured solar rotation – and there was a distinct lack of invading Decepticon forces. The skies were clear and many of the damaged areas were repaired – not all, but many.

“Well, I owe Magnus an apology,” he laughed aloud. “Looks like Big Bot pulled off a last stand in style and drove the bad guys away – even while short-staffed. Doesn’t explain how he _fixed_ everything so quickly, though.”

Scanning around again, Silverstreak realised he was up… _way_ up… above the surface of the planet. He was standing near the very top of the Imperial Amphitheatre, in the “cheap seats”. The atmosphere up here was so thin, smaller mechs and Mini-cons used to stall while watching mecha-soccer matches. The last time Silverstreak had been here, Krok had kicked a goal that not only won the championship, but also took the head off of the opposition’s goalkeeper.

“Wait just an astrosecond,” he said to no one but himself. “The cheap seats got taken out by a rocket attack during the siege. What the frell?”

He heard someone groan and ran toward the sound. He found Vector Prime lying on the floor between two chairs, fighting to sit up. The ancient mechanoid was muttering and jerking as if his Energon reserves were bone dry. A wound on his throat leaked a little oil, but had mostly closed over. He fell onto his back with a loud clang just as Silverstreak reached him.

“Time,” he murmured, so softly the gunner had to lean in close to hear. “Must not change… consequences too great… seven who fell must not live…”

Vector Prime grunted and passed out. He wasn’t quite in stasis lock, but he was definitely off-line. It could have been a stress reaction, Silverstreak thought, aside from the fact Transformers didn’t _get_ stress. “Weird,” he muttered.

“Can it, will you?” hissed a voice to his right. “And get down, while you’re at it! Bad enough you’re here – worse if you make yourself a target!”

Bulkhead was crouched at the very edge of the railings, looking down. Silverstreak drew his rifle and walked, very slowly, over to join him. He hadn’t forgotten Bulkhead’s attack on Vector Prime, and wasn’t willing to be the mad-mech’s next victim. Still, he needed some information about what was going on.

“So we’re not on Cybertron anymore,” he whispered. Then he thought for a moment, about Vector Prime and pits opening in the middle of roadways. “Or, at least, we’re not on Cybertron _when_ we were. So _when_ are we, Bulkhead?”

A shudder ran through the length of the green-and-white helicopter’s body. “Eight point one million years ago,” he breathed. “In three breems, the Wreckers die in the dust and grime of the amphitheatre floor.”

“The Wreckers? Your old unit?” Silverstreak was puzzled. “I heard they died in a mission off-world, fighting the Mayhem Attack Squad, and you were the sole survivor. You, and three of the ‘cons.”

“Cover story,” Bulkhead snapped. “Prime and Magnus didn’t want anyone knowing the truth of that night – it would be _too embarrassing_.” He made mincing actions with his fingers. “The Wreckers died at the hands of the Mayhems _right here_ … in three breems’ time.”

Silverstreak cocked his rifle. “Now I _know_ you’ve popped a circuit. How did the Mayhems get over the walls of Iacon? The only time ‘cons made it over the wall was just before the Mini-con signal hit Cybertron.”

The surviving Wrecker looked at him, his optics flashing darkly. “You think that just because you’re part of the slagging ‘elite’, your precious Optimus tells you everything?” he snarled. “I bet he never told you the Mayhems were _let_ over the walls that night. Every Autobot was ordered out of the area, except for the Wreckers. Then the Mayhems were lured into an ambush so they could be slaughtered – as per Optimus Prime’s orders.

“Prime never ‘fessed up to risking the security of Iacon just to slag eight ‘cons, did he? Did he ever tell you he fired the first shot that night, killing a Decepticon in cold oil? Did he announce Ultra Magnus, that blasted _freak of nature_ , caused Scavenger’s death by trying to order the Wreckers around? Did either of them admit how we all _devolved_ into _animals_ , hacking and slashing at one another until our chassis were covered in oil and sludge?”

He shuddered again. “Vector Prime talked about the entropy in all our Sparks, that little piece of Unicron… it _came out_ this night, leaving no one except your precious leaders unscathed!”

Bulkhead moved quickly, giving Silverstreak no time to react. His left foot slammed into the gunner’s midsection, throwing him back into the cheap seats. The impact winded Silverstreak and knocked his neural net out of plumb, concussing him. Dazed, he heard Bulkhead sneer.

“But in three breems… none of it will ever have happened. I’m going to re-live it one more time, just to make sure I never have to re-live it again.”

\-----

Most of the buildings in Iacon were gleaming towers, stretching high into the sub-orbital regions. They were gold and pleasing to the optical sensor, harkening back to a time when Cybertron was at peace and knowledge was the only real vice. It was the sort of city a ‘bot felt safe in… like you were living in sunshine, all the time.

Most of the buildings in Iacon made you feel like that. One _didn’t_. It was the oldest building in the city and it squatted – not stood – on the very edge of the business district. It was neither golden nor a tower. It was a short, dumpy grouping of pillars, each with a rounded top that vented fire and smoke. Upon seeing it for the first time, a few years back, Kicker had commented: “well, every town needs a haunted house.”

That description of the Underbase – the primary data storage facility on Cybertron – had never been so apt, in Scattorshot’s opinion. Especially now he knew the whole place was, basically, Primus’ memory banks. The diminutive Autobot gripped the blue Planet Key a little tighter. He was about to go strolling through someone else’s brain… all by himself.

“Damned if this ain’t the _worst_ situation I’ve ever been in!” he wailed.

Scattorshot knew Ultra Magnus had been left with no choice. The Dinobots had, of course, refused to split tracks and insisted they all go to recover the green Key – which made sense, ‘cause the Terrorcons had the darn thing. Override couldn’t be totally trusted, meaning Blur had to accompany her. Optimus needed someone to guard him in the med bay, which took Nightbeat off the battlefield. All of that left Magnus with just 10 Autobots – and one ex-Decepticon – with whom to defend Iacon.

All of that left Scattorshot with the task of returning the blue Key to the Underbase… of walking through a haunted house filled with the memories of a god-like, planet-sized Transformer… on his own, with no back-up.

It showed how much Magnus trusted him – how impressive he’d been, saving the day back on Earth like he did – but that was no comfort whatsoever. “Ah’m _so_ screwed,” he spluttered.

Tucking the Key under one arm, he drew his double-barrelled blaster and walked inside. Small, dim lights ran along the floors and provided the only true illumination. Every other light source was a data monitor or a view screen, endlessly cycling and recycling information as it flooded in.

Once upon a time, Optimus Prime himself had worked in the Underbase – every student of Cybertronian history knew that – and he had chronicled a lot of this data. So had Ultra Magnus… back when he was a Mini-con. It was where the great heroes had met for the first time.

But how had they put up with… well… with the _voices_?

A million whispers filled the cavernous halls, muttering and shouting and screaming and proclaiming. Some were familiar voices – Sentinel Prime, Overcast and long-dead Autobots. Others were frightening and disturbing… some alien and unintelligible. Their ghostly words whipped around Scattorshot’s legs and arms, ensnaring him in gossamer threads of conversations long ended, chilling his oil with their constant reminders of mortality, death and the passage of time.

Intellectually, he knew he was hearing sound recordings, playing and looping and rewinding as they were endlessly sifted by the Underbase. That didn’t make it any less terrifying for the neurotic Autobot, or any less unsettling. It was, as Kicker had said, a haunted house filled with the voices of the dead – and the deadly.

“Don’t move, Autobot scum,” hissed a voice, so close it could have been on top of him… a frighteningly familiar voice. “I don’t know how you came to be here, or how you managed to find me, but I can assure you that you’ll not leave this place _alive_!”

Scattorshot’s sump sank in his chassis. “Oh slag… it’s Megatron,” he cried, fighting to stop his hands from shaking. The Key slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the floor. Knowing he was dead, refusing to give in without some sort of fight, he turned on his heel and raised his blaster.

There was no one behind him.

He peered through the gloom, letting his new Key-enhanced sensors do the hard work. The voice had come from yet another view screen, this time set into the floor under his feet. It showed the Decepticon leader confronting Optimus Prime on a thin, concrete platform. Water ran over the platform and down a sheer cliff face. Both commanders wielded glowing Energon weapons – Megatron a purple mace, Prime an orange axe – and were poised for combat.

It was a recording of one of the Earth battles! Obviously, it had been added to the Underbase since the Unicron Battles. Scattorshot breathed a long, loud sigh of relief and dropped his gun to his side.

“That was _not_ funny,” he said to the chamber around him. “If you’re gonna play somethin’, make it somethin’ a little more soothing; alright?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Well, thank ya very much, I’m obliged… wait a second! Who the heck…”

“Oh come _on_ , little Autobot,” said another familiar voice. This one was high-pitched and threatening, its words clipped and refined. “Surely you haven’t forgotten me so soon after our last confrontation?”

Scattorshot froze, the Key still by his feet. He knew to whom the voice belonged. “Please,” he said quietly, “please tell me yer just another recordin’!”

Starscream stepped into the half-light, his red and white metal turning sickening shades of blue and purple. His silver-edged Force Chip jutted from his back while his null-energy blades were already fully extended from his arms. They made a humming noise, for a moment drowning out the endless whispering of the Underbase.

“I’m very real, Scattorshot,” he leered, “and I need to speak with you about something _very_ important.

“You see, I’m the leader of the Decepticons now, which means I’ll no longer have time for personal vendettas. A good commander needs to focus on his troops, after all. They must also have a certain level of… infallibility. Past mistakes need to be wiped off the slate, if you understand what I mean.”

He took a step forward and Scattorshot shrank back, too frightened to even lift his gun from his side. The null-blades filled his view screen with their horrible purple glow.

“You embarrassed me the last time we met, even forced me to retreat,” Starscream hissed. “I’m sure you realise I can’t let that stand. Which means you have to _fall_.”


	4. Chapter 4

On the day he had accepted the Matrix… the day his body had reformatted into the powerful chassis of a leader-born… Optimus Prime had been anointed in the Oracle Tank. Deep within the sacred “waters” he would experience visions of the past and of the future – images he could use to guide his style of leadership in the days ahead.

Or so he was told.

It had been a totally forgettable experience. Optimus had seen nothing while immersed – no grand visions, no glimpses of secrets yet to come. Instead, he’d been treated to a small light show. The “waters” of the tank turned silver, then black in front of his optics… then gold. The sum total of his “spiritual journey” was a kaleidoscope more likely caused by a systems glitch than a racial memory.

The start of his journey into the Matrix of Leadership felt much the same. The familiar icy-blue light of the artefact gave way to a rainbow spectrum of hues – reds, purples and greens – as he moved, faster and faster, into the crystalline depths.

Of course, he wasn’t really moving at all. He didn’t have a body or a physical form – his intelligence, his personality and Spark were bytes of data running along the pathways of the ancient object, working like a search engine to locate the engrams belonging to the Gigalonian leader, Metroplex. Even so, interfacing with the Matrix had an unexpected side effect – Optimus “saw” his body around him, floating like a ghostly image. He had sense of self and sense of motion, and could even move his gossamer limbs as he would in the real world.

Idly, he wondered if his body was jerking spasmodically back on the med bay table, scaring the life out of Nightbeat. He hoped not.

The flood of colours ended abruptly, and Prime “moved” into a large, spherical blue chamber. What he saw there amazed him… there were thousands upon millions of Transformers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and covering every inch of the space. The realm was filled to overflowing with faces both familiar and unrecognisable. For every Autobot he remembered, there were at least one hundred mechs he had never seen before. Their designs were alien, and Optimus realised they had been natives of Animatros, Speedia and Gigalonia. His Spark swelled with hope – Metroplex _would_ be here somewhere!

“Ah-hem!” coughed an impolite voice, somewhere to his intangible right. “Anything I can help you with?”

Had Prime a sump at this point, it would have sunk into his chassis. Thrust – the Decepticon he’d brutally murdered, back in the Imperial Amphitheatre – was _hovering_ next to him, leering cruelly. His frame was identical to how it had been, 8.1 million years before, but his colouring was different. Thrust had been painted in shades of green and white. Here, within the Matrix, his hues were dull brown and black, with splashes of blue along his chest and legs.

“What’s the matter, oh great leader?” Thrust chortled. “Never seen a ghost before?”

\-----

“Waaaaaagh!”

Omega Supreme turned and fired, nailing Slugslinger with a barrage from his hand-mounted cannon. The Decepticon’s wing exploded noisily and he plummeted toward the ground. Wedge – the gunman’s former target – didn’t stop to admire the plume of flame… he just kept running, screaming in terror.

The giant Autobot scanned around the rest of the Build Team. Grimlock was proving how different he was from his namesake – the gentle steam shovel couldn’t bring himself to fire on another Transformer, no matter the danger. Heavy Load was hiding behind his jagged shield, deflecting blasts but refusing to attack. Only Hightower seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. Wielding the group’s excavating cannon, he was shooting down every Decepticon he saw.

Wedge ran toward Omega and tripped, landing flat on his face plate. The young Gigalonian’s optics were wide with fright. Though they’d taken up arms on their home world to save Nightbeat, it seemed the Build Team had acted completely out of character. They were ill-suited for combat, and their bright yellow bodies made them easy targets for opportunistic Decepticons.

They were, Omega thought, just like every Autobot had been, nine million years ago. In their optics he could see the same bewilderment and confusion that had plagued all the soldiers he’d trained. They were as flummoxed as every warrior he’d fought alongside during the siege of Iacon.

 _The_ first _siege of Iacon, anyway_ he thought glumly, taking a moment to launch a missile at Slugslinger. The munition drove the Decepticon toward cover – he did not raise his head again.

_I need to take the Build Team in hand if they’re to survive the night. They have the makings of warriors – they took down Crumplezone, after all – but have never faced true warfare. Though I wish I could spare them these horrors, the only way to save their lives is to give them some tough love._

“Wedge, shut up!” he bellowed, drowning out the sounds of battle. “You claim to be the leader of this team – then switch off your synthesiser, reboot your courage and start _leading them_ to victory!”

The little Gigalonian looked up, his expression ashen. “I can’t, Omega – I just can’t!” he wailed. “This is too much, all at once… it’s too big!”

“Too _big_?” Omega roared, drawing himself up to full height. “A Gigalonian is telling me something is too _big_? The mech who designed the Global Space Bridge is saying something can’t be done?

“Well, I guess every mech on that useless purple dust ball was right,” he spat sourly. “Size is the only thing that matters on Gigalonia because the smaller you are, the more _useless_ you are. And you being the smallest of the small, I guess that means you’re the most useless mech in history!”

He turned his back, his Spark close to breaking. Wedge and the others had done so much for Omega Supreme… repairing him, befriending him, reminding him of his duties and responsibilities… and he cared for them deeply. To have to hurt them so badly, even to save their lives, was the single most evil thing he’d ever done. That little piece of Unicron, deep within his Spark, was no doubt cackling madly with glee.

Omega’s audio sensors picked up the tell-tale sounds of transformation… and of Powerlinking. He turned to see Landfill, the combined gestalt form of the Build Team. In one treaded arm he bore Heavy Load’s shield, in the other Hightower’s cannon. His head module – formed from the inner workings of Wedge – nodded firmly, while his shoulder-mounted claw – part of Grimlock – tensed and flexed like an angry serpent.

“Thanks, Omega,” Landfill said, his voice a perfect mixture of all his components. “You were right. When the problem gets big… the tough get bigger.”

Omega returned the nod, and the two giants waded back into combat… side-by-side.

\-----

Thundercracker cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something far away. The ex-Decepticon sheathed his wing sword and transformed, dropping the gutted chassis of Kickback in the process. He took off in the direction of the Uraya border, leaving a frame-rattling sonic boom in his wake.

Rodimus shook his head in disgust. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he muttered.

“Stow that tone,” Ultra Magnus, standing just a few metres away, commanded. “Worry about your own targets instead of everyone else’s.”

The cavalier turned and fired on Sharkticon, muttering under his breath all the while. The cowardly ‘con danced nimbly around the blasts and kept firing. The shots crept ever closer to Rodimus’ legs, forcing the Autobot back. Suddenly, a dark figure slammed into him and shoved him to the left. Two of Sharkticon’s missiles perforated the air where he’d been.

Kneeling on Rodimus’ chest, Arcee loosed two bolts from her crossbow. Both detonated on Sharkticon’s chest and he transformed, flying away as fast as he could.

Rodimus struggled to sit up. “Gee, thanks _ever so much_ for that, Arcee,” he growled. “Whatever happened to ‘hey Rodimus, look out’? I _had_ it covered, you know.”

“He had your range,” Arcee said tersely. She slid off his chassis and rose to full height, blue optics flashing. “Next time I’ll just let you get slagged, shall I?”

“Why not?” Rodimus cried, throwing his arms into the sky. “One more Autobot down – it’ll save you and your _boyfriend_ an execution when he establishes his ‘New Decepticon Order’ or whatever his grand scheme is!”

Four cluster bombs erupted around them. Magnus yelled for them to find cover, but neither moved. Arcee’s face was a mask of cold steel, while Rodimus’ engine was idling fast. Neither was going to back down from _this_ conversation.

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend, you idiot – and I’m no more a Decepticon than _you_ are!”

“Oh really? Sorry, but all the love and care and tenderness passing between the two of you is _pretty frelling obvious_ , not to mention _disgusting_!”

“You are _so_ immature, do you know that? Why don’t you try acting your age, _Roddy_ , and get a clue? Thundercracker and I are fellow warriors, and that’s _it_! He’s the sort of warrior you can rely on!”

“Oh, and I’m not?”

“Thundercracker wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a crazy fembot to save a colleague’s _life_ , Rodimus!”

“So back on the steps, then, before the battle started – you weren’t about to tell me that you’re _in love_ with him, then?”

Arcee fell silent. Her posture slumped and her jaw went slack. Rodimus knew he should have been happy to win the argument but, instead, he was sick to his Spark. _Of all the times to be right about something, it just had to be this_.

Someone grabbed him by the back of the neck. He yelped, then saw Arcee had been snatched in the same way. He looked up into the furious features of Ultra Magnus and gulped – the big bot was _exceedingly_ unhappy.

“In case either of you over-emotional dunderheads have missed it, we’re being blown to scrap right now,” he said in even, dangerous tones. “I would like for the both of you to stow whatever it is you’re arguing about and shoot some Decepticons before they shoot us. Otherwise, I will physically _throw you both_ over the enemy lines and let you fight your way back here, just to ensure you’re doing something useful. Do I make myself clear, soldiers?”

He dumped them unceremoniously on the ground and resumed his attack, picking Laserbeak out of the sky with a single shot. Rodimus and Arcee exchange embarrassed glances.

“We’ll talk later,” she said quietly.

“Uh huh,” he grunted.

\-----

“I hateShockblast. IhateShockblast. IhatehatehatehatehatehatehateShockblast!”

“I’m… pretty sure he doesn’t think a lot of you, Blur.”

“Andthatattitudedoesn’thelpmeatall!”

Blur shifted his grip on Override and leaned forward, trying to coax more speed out of his crippled body. He grunted and grimaced as shrapnel bounced off his back – Shockblast’s assaults were coming closer and closer. He’d never experienced this level of terror before. Usually he was so far ahead of laser blasts that they were of no concern. Now, there was a genuine risk of death.

Override growled in pain. “Take the Key and use it,” she barked. “It’ll give you the boost you need!”

It was a tempting thought, but Blur had already dismissed it. He was a data courier and, at his heart, a pacifist. Neither of that meant much in the heat of the Cybertronian civil war – they weren’t qualities to boast about. His speed, however, made him unique and different and valuable… it was one trait of which he could be proud. Blur had never resorted to artificial means to up his velocity and even now, with their lives at stake, he couldn’t bring himself to “cheat”. His internal repair systems would fix whatever was wrong… they had to!

The air around them turned a brilliant shade of green. “We’re right in his sights,” Override screamed. “He’ll slag us! Use the damn Key, Blur!”

Heat washed over them as the orbital weapon powered up, encircling them in an emerald halo. Blur gritted his iron teeth. “Thisisgonnahurt, reallyreallybad,” he shouted. He dug deep in his Spark, urging his systems to respond… to purge the last of the decelerator laser and _move_!

The green blast ripped into the surface of Cybertron, scalding the air and melting everything in its path. Blur and Override, however, were no longer in its path… they were a full kilometre ahead, picking up speed as they went.

“Wahooo!” Blur erupted with pure exhilaration. “I’mbackI’mbackI’mback!”

He’d thrown off the shackles of the deceleration laser just in time – whatever internal system had been fighting with the radiation had finally broken through. His feet pounded a staccato beat into the ground and he accelerated, barely feeling the weight of Override in his arms. The world around him stretched and warped into a mess of blurs. It was as if the universe was welcoming him back to his high-velocity home.

Blur powered on to the edge of the Iacon cliffs and _over_ the side. Centrifugal force kept him connected to the sheer surface as he bolted for the Key’s home. The think black slot was exactly where Vector Prime had said it would be, and Blur tapped on Override’s cockpit.

“We’reonlygonnagetonepassatthis,” he said. “Letmehaveitnow!”

Wordlessly she complied, popping her pink hatch. Blur snatched the Key with his free hand and held it out like a relay baton, ready to pass the torch to Primus itself. He curved around the lock and slammed the Key home, audio sensors rattling as a thunderous click echoed around him.

He zipped back up the side of the cliffs. A brilliant red glow followed him as the power of the Key built, redoubled and finally washed over the surface of the planet. For the briefest of moments, all of Cybertron turned a deep crimson.

“It’s done,” Override said faintly. Her voice trailed off and Blur looked down in panic – the former Speedia queen was turning a dull grey. She was slipping into terminal stasis lock and would die without medical attention.

The hyper-fast Autobot turned to run, but was forced to dodge a barrage of Energon blasts. Shockblast soared down to ground level, still in his satellite mode.

“Logically,” the military operations commander hissed, “no one is fast enough to avoid a weapon fired from point-blank range.”

Blur tensed… then cheered as Thundercracker soared into view. The midnight blue jet slammed into his former comrade from behind, driving them both into the ground with a shower of sparks and oil. “Go!” Thundercracker called from somewhere within the carnage. “Get her out of here, Blur!”

He didn’t need to be told twice – Blur made for the med bay as if Unicron itself were on his heels. The last thing he heard was Thundercracker’s wing sword snap into place, and the ex-Decepticon’s smooth voice.

“Hello, old friend,” Thundercracker said to Shockblast. “It’s been a long time.”

\-----

Vector Prime’s voice echoed in his audio sensors. _Time must not change… consequences too great… seven who fell must not live_. The sentence ran through his processor over and over again, lulling him back to full awareness.

Silverstreak put one hand to his aching head and the other to his sore midsection. “Great,” he moaned as his fingers probed the welts in his bodywork. “Matching dents. Red Alert’s going to be thrilled about this one.”

 _Assuming Red Alert even exists when we get back_.

It was an uncomfortable thought. On the surface, the idea of the Wreckers surviving the battle was an appealing one. Add seven heavily armed and experienced combat soldiers to the war effort and you might get an early Autobot victory. But there were consequences Silverstreak knew he couldn’t see. Say Cliffjumper survived, for example, and was assigned to recover the Mini-cons. What if he wasn’t fast enough to save Red Alert from Scorponok, like Silverstreak had that time? How vastly different could the future be, when changed at its very foundations?

And when did you stop changing things? Should their next stop be Nova Cronum, a cycle or two before Megatron razed it to the ground? Silverstreak could tear through his beloved home city at top speed, warning everyone of the carnage to come. He could change things so he wouldn’t be the sole survivor anymore… so his ghosts would go away and stop haunting him.

Silverstreak sighed loudly and pulled himself to his feet. He knew, only too well, the guilt and shame Bulkhead felt. In some ways, it was worse for the gunner – he’d been deliberately spared, at Megatron’s order, to act as a messenger. For the longest time, that had chewed into his Spark, but he’d made peace with it during his time on Earth. There was no point rehashing the past and driving yourself crazy. You had to learn from your experiences and move forward, trusting yourself to forge a better future.

It was a lesson he’d teach Bulkhead… even if he had to _pound_ it into him.

Silverstreak tackled the larger Autobot from behind, trying to slam his head into the amphitheatre’s railing. Bulkhead was twice his size and at least three times stronger, with denser armour and those high-velocity kicks to worry about. If he was to stand any chance of dropping the Wrecker, he had to do it by fighting dirty.

Unfortunately, Bulkhead was a better commando than Silverstreak could ever hope to be. He shrugged off the gunner’s attack, peppering his already damaged body with a flurry of punches and kicks. Silverstreak fell back, coughing up oil, but that didn’t stop Bulkhead’s assault. He waded in closer, optics flashing red with madness, and delivered a crushing uppercut to Silverstreak’s jaw. Once again, the smaller Autobot sailed through the air and into the seats, not too far from his previous landing.

“By the Matrix!”

The voice was not Bulkhead’s, nor did it belong to Vector Prime. Stunned, both Silverstreak and the Wrecker turned to see another Transformer looking at them. The white-armoured mech wore an expression of confusion and terror.

Silverstreak suddenly realised how alien he and Bulkhead would look – because they’d been reformatted with Earth-style alternate modes. To a Transformer, 8.1 million years ago, they’d look horrifyingly different… maybe even like the soldiers of the five-faced industrialists who had invaded just a few vorns earlier.

“Just calm down,” Silverstreak said, pushing chairs out of his way. “I can explain what we’re…”

“We’re Autobots, and there’s going to be an attack!” Bulkhead yelled suddenly, jerking a thumb at the symbol on his chest. “The Decepticons are coming, and all of the resistance leader are in danger! You have to tell Optimus Prime!”

The other Transformer looked worried. “But I’m not even supposed to be here,” he said. “We were ordered away, but I came back because…”

“I don’t care!” Bulkhead snapped. “Your leader will forgive you – but he has to be _alive_ to do that! Go!”

“All… alright!”

The white robot dashed away from them, making his way around the open mouth of the amphitheatre as fast as he could. Silverstreak looked across to where he was headed and saw a large, red switch… the fire alarm.

“Oh no.”

\-----

“Oh no you don’t! You don’t get away from me _that_ easily, Autobot!”

Scattorshot had no idea what to do next. He’d torn off around a corner and quickly become lost in the Underbase’s maze-like interior. A thousand voices murmured and muttered into his audio sensors, talking of battles and wars and combat… of poetry and sculpture and design.

“You left an exhaust trail a mile wide on your way here, Scattorshot… it was all too easy to leave my troops to their own devices and follow you. Time to clean the slate.”

Fortunately he’d had the presence of processor to grab the Planet Key _before_ running like a scared petro-rabbit. The blue disc pulsed gently against his chest plate, increasing the whispers around him – hissed mentions of battle plans, of deception and betrayal, of Primes long past.

Starscream was somewhere behind him… or above him or around the corner from him. Who knew? The Underbase was like a living thing – heck, it _was_ a living thing – and its pathways seemed to twist and turn of their own accord. The Decepticon warrior was firing on every shadow, emptying his chest-mounted machine guns at the slightest hint of an Autobot symbol. “You have to come out with that Key at some stage, Scattorshot,” he called nastily. “You see, I’m _standing_ in front of the very lock you’re searching for!”

“Aw, slag,” Scattorshot muttered. “Can my day get any worse?”

A view screen beside his head flared to life. It showed the battle outside, and it looked grim for the Autobots. He watched silently as Ultra Magnus grappled with Soundwave, and Rodimus and Arcee dodged the attacks of six Decepticons. Omega Supreme and Landfill seemed to be faring a little better, but even they were taking heavy damage. There was no sign of Red Alert, Downshift or Swerve and no missiles streaking from ground level, meaning Fortress Maximus wasn’t online yet. Who knew where Thundercracker, Bulkhead and the others were?

The visual reminder of his friends, of the danger they were in, galvanised Scattorshot. His anxieties and nerves fell away, and the path he had to take became suddenly clear. He took a deep breath, moved the Key around behind his back and stepped out into the dim, half-lit corridors.

“Alright, Starscream, you win,” he called. “Don’t shoot me, just gimme a second and the Key is yours. Ah’m no hero…this thing ain’t worth me getting’ shot to pieces.”

Starscream came around the corner, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Wise move, little mech,” he said, each word dripping false sincerity. “Hand it over and you can walk away, unscathed. You have my _word_ as leader of the Decepticons.”

“That’s about the best I kin ask for. You were always gonna get it from me, anyway. I’m just not powerful enough to stop ya.”

“You’re wiser than most of your friends. It’s good to know there are some Autobots out there who can see sense. Now… _the Key_.”

Scattorshot lobbed the disc across the hallway – Starscream caught it one-handed. Triumphantly, the aerial warrior stepped to one side and rammed the Key into its slot, then cackled with delight. “Now _I_ hold the ultimate knowledge of Cybertron,” he howled. “Underbase – download!”

 _Invalid activation device_ , said a flat, hollow voice. _This Key does not match this system. Please insert the correct Key into the slot_.

“What the frell?” Starscream looked closer at the Key, peering to see it in the poor lighting of the Underbase. He screamed with fury as he caught sight of the silver decorations on its circumference. “Why, you little…”

“Congratulations, Decepticon,” Scattorshot yelled. “You’ve just been _deceived_.”

He raised his blaster and fired. The crimson beams glanced off the Decepticon’s thick armour but staggered him. One of his angular feet snagged on a cable and jarred to a halt, sending him crashing to the floor. Scattorshot was on him in an instant, acting as a dead weight to keep the killer pinned to the ground. He ripped his Force Chip from the slot with one hand and rammed the Planet Key home with the other.

“Done and dusted!” he whooped.

The lights inside the Underbase went out, plunging them into darkness. Then they came back on in a sudden, intense burst – a sky-blue aura that bounced off every surface and forced its way up and out the top of the cavernous chamber. Every view screen showed the outside world as Cybertron glowed with the same blue light, just for a second. The whispers of the Underbase fell into silence, only to be replaced with a deep humming noise that threatened to burst his audio sensors.

“An’ that’d be my cue to split,” Scattorshot cried. He shoved his Force Chip back into its sub-space pocket, transformed to his half-tank mode and accelerated for all he was worth. The humming grew in intensity as he crashed through the front doors and seemed to follow him out into the streets of Iacon.

A moment later, Starscream burst from the structure, his hands covering the sides of his head. “The noise!” he wailed as he transformed to vehicle mode, “I can’t stand it!”

He engaged his afterburners and rocketed back toward the Decepticon lines. Scattorshot locked onto his emissions and loosed his twin missiles. One went wide but the other slammed into Starscream’s tail fin, disintegrating it in a burst of flame and ash.

“I’m not powerful enough to stop ya, Starscream,” he hollered, “but I’m more’n smart enough to trip you up any day of th’ _week_!”

Scattorshot hauled his steering to the left and made for the Stellar Galleries. There’d be time to celebrate his victories – both cosmic and personal – later. Right now, he had some friends who needed back-up.

\-----

“No back up?”

“Not that I can smell.”

“Good thing, too,” Grimlock whispered. “With Swoop off being stupid, need all breaks we can get.”

Snarl didn’t answer the radio call, instead moving further behind a tall, curved pillar. The wolf was at the very entrance to the Plasma Energy Chamber – a spacious, circular room made of highly polished stainless steel. The forge sat in the centre of the far wall. It was a dome, its smooth façade broken only by a control panel on its front. He wondered what was inside. Wondered _very_ much.

The forge resembled the kilns he and the Red Masks had built on Animatros. The similarity was unsurprising – he had a feeling a lot of Animatros’ culture was based on Flame Convoy’s memories of his work. Snarl could imagine the dragon-bot hammering away on rows of metal bodies, building warriors for Primus. It explained his erstwhile leader’s obsession with enhancement and his attachment to his impractical battle hammer. In his flesh-induced dementia, the trappings of the past were the only things that made sense to him.

“So there just two of them, right?” Grimlock was hiding by the forge. The idea was to trap the Terrorcons in a pincer, blasting them to scrap before they even realised they had company. It was something of a dishonourable plan, but Snarl chalked it up to Grimlock’s desperation. The Dinobot truly believed all of existence hinged upon their success. Snarl did not.

“Just two,” he confirmed, sniffing the air again. “Smells like…Predacon and one other. Many fangs.”

“Cruel Lock,” Grimlock said, failing to disguise the anticipation in his voice. “Good. Take out both dumb dinos at same time. Could be good night after all.”

Snarl shifted his grip on his missile launcher and drew bead on a spot halfway between himself and Grimlock. The scents of his enemies grew stronger in his nostrils. It would not be long now.

\-----

For the longest time, he’d been told his self-doubt was a luxury – one that would have to be “sacrificed in order to truly lead”. Optimus Prime’s words still rang as loudly in his audio sensors as the day he’d first said them. Here, during the worst invasion in the history of the war, Ultra Magnus was hard-pressed to sacrifice his doubts.

He’d split his meagre defence force into tiny groups, charging each with a nearly impossible mission. Those who’d remained had been asked to repel 200 Decepticons by themselves. While they’d met with some success… the enemy ranks, he estimated, had fallen to 150 with no Autobot casualties… their deaths seemed certain.

Had he done the right thing? What other tactical moves should he have tried? Maybe if he’d let Prime and Nightbeat stay, as they’d wanted to, and…

Soundwave was on him in an instant, and Magnus only barely blocked the communicator’s gun arm. Though now stripped of his god-like powers, Soundwave remained a formidable foe. His optics narrowed in his inscrutable, unreadable face plate as he laced fingers with Magnus, initiating a “test of strength” confrontation.

It had been many, many vorns since Magnus had found an even match for his power. Soundwave, it would seem, _was_ that match – the Earthforce commander had difficulty gaining and holding leverage. He felt his knee servos, still gimpy after the Earth battle, start to give way beneath him. Damn his self-sacrificing ways, his willingness to be last in line for repairs!

On the horizon, something blue flashed. A wave of azure energy washed over the battlefield – just as crimson light had danced over them, minutes earlier – meaning the Earth Key had been locked into place. Magnus breathed a small sigh of relief. At least Blur and Scattorshot had succeeded in their tasks… he was not a _complete_ failure as a commander.

Blue lightning crept over the sky and rocketed toward him. Magnus’ internal sensors calculated its trajectory and concluded it would hit him in seconds, but he could not wrest free of Soundwave to move. He watched, almost helpless, as the crackling energy drew closer and _slammed_ into his forehead.

His strength failed and his sight went dark, and he realised he was falling to the ground. As his systems failed and stasis lock beckoned, one thought flew through his mind.

“I’m sorry, Prime… I _failed_ you.”


	5. Chapter 5

If you thought about it… and Nightbeat gave things _too much_ thought, most of the time… medical bays were pretty creepy places.

There were happy occasions inside the sterile, clinical places, sure. An old friend recovering from a horrific injury, or a new one climbing out of a protoform pod for the first time. More often than not, though, med bays were places of doom and gloom… of lost limbs and lost lives. Those within the bay walls were either waiting for news, waiting for a ray of hope, or simply waiting to die.

Which pretty much summed up the detective’s situation. He was sitting on the floor, waiting for news from his leader, Optimus Prime. The big bot had gone walkabout inside the Matrix of Leadership to boost the juice of the purple Planet Key and save the world. Prime was waiting for a ray of hope called Metroplex… and, all the while, Nightbeat’s old friend Checkpoint was waiting to die.

Nightbeat couldn’t bring himself to look around at the CR chamber containing his partner. It was too much like…

The tiniest of noises made his engine skip a beat. Instinctively, he drew his plasma rifle and scanned the area. Nothing. There was nothing in sight that could have caused the tinkling noise. Most mechs would stop looking at that point, but not Nightbeat. He knew that, if nothing in sight was the cause, blame had to be placed on what you _couldn’t_ see… which was usually what killed you.

Methodically, he “walked the grid” – checking the med bay by mentally slicing it into sections. When he’d observed everything north-to-south, he checked it again east-to-west. He found the source of the noise… a glass beaker was tapping on a steel shelf.

He sighed with relief. Fighting an assassin inside the cramped confines of the med bay would have been entirely too difficult. Nightbeat found himself hoping Optimus would come back online soon, well before the half-hour time limit, so they could get back outside and help the others stop the Decepticon invasion.

One half of his processor – the half that never stopped cycling information – howled in alarm. The med bay was a sealed, sterile area… an airtight area. How had the beaker, on the other side of the room, moved if there was no one around to disturb it?

He spun around but was too late – Battle Ravage sprang from the shadows and knocked him down, raking jagged claws across his face plate. The detective kicked and struggled, breaking free but dropping his rifle. Battle Ravage laughed – a low, growling, feral laugh – and pounced again, strong jaws snapping at Nightbeat’s throat.

\-----

Ultra Magnus was having an out-of-body experience. Trouble was, he was having it out of the _wrong_ body.

The chassis of the Mini-con called Rollout sat propped in the corner of a small Cybertronian workshop. It had been Magnus’ original body – before the fluke of science that bonded him to the Overload platform. It was slumped like a lifeless puppet while his consciousness floated near the ceiling, looking down.

An astrosecond before, he’d been grappling with Soundwave – yet he felt no need to question the bizarre, abrupt change in surrounds. For the first time in many vorns, Magnus felt… at peace. As if he’d come home at long last.

Something was on a workbench below him, but he couldn’t see what it was. A group of Transformers were crowded around the bench, making approving noises. One voice broke through the hum of conversation – a voice Magnus recognised.

“Thank you, my friends,” the red-and-blue Transformer said. Magnus took in details he knew well… the proud, thin features, the long metallic “beard”, the crested helm and the wings that looked like a cape. The robot below him was Alpha Trion, one of the wisest Transformers in all of creation.

In his youthful days as Rollout, Magnus had spent cycle after cycle with the venerable mechanoid, learning about Cybertron, its history and geography. He and his best friend, Orion Pax had discovered their love of archiving at Alpha Trion’s side.

So why then was he “back” here? Magnus remembered being struck by blue lightning just moments after the Earth Key had been slotted into place. Was this some sort of strange side effect of the Underbase’s activation? Had he somehow accessed a lost data track?

Or, more accurately… had the data track accessed _him_?

\-----

“I know I’m not your first choice for spirit guide but, come on – you’re accessing the land beyond death here! You don’t exactly _get_ a choice!”

Optimus Prime tried to ignore Thrust’s mocking tone. “If you want me to apologise for killing you, Decepticon, then you’re out of luck.”

Thrust placed his hands on his chest in feigned shock. “Oh no! However shall I live? Oh, that’s right… I _didn’t_ ,” he chortled. “Kind of hard to live when you’re cranium’s been _crushed_ flatter than a motherboard by the bearer of the Matrix.

“Remind me, oh great and powerful Prime, what was the oath you swore when they gave you that _shiny_ bauble? Something about protecting the lives of all Cybertronians, I believe.”

Optimus bristled. “Not a cycle passes, Thrust, when I don’t regret our… altercation. I was young and reckless, and chose the closed fist over the open hand. I was wrong to strike with such fatal intent, and I swear I have not done so again. Your death changed the way I lead my troops, and has caused me to seek peace wherever possible.”

He glared at the grinning apparition. Thrust returned the smile. “Well, that’s all you had to say, boss-bot,” he snickered. “Come on, I’ll take you to Metroplex.”

The Decepticon floated away, and Prime followed. “That’s it? Conversation over?”

“Take a look around,” Thrust gestured with one hand. “We’re packed pretty tightly in here – Autobot and Decepticon alike. You learn pretty quickly not to hold grudges.”

 _Autobot and Decepticon alike_ , Optimus mused silently. He’d read old data tracks calling the artefact “the burden hardest to bear”, and the term gained new relevance in his mind.

Within his chest was the receptacle of all Transformer life – be it altruistic or selfish, good or evil. As they passed into the Matrix, the dead passed through him, subtly affecting his thoughts and beliefs. Every cycle he fought not only self-doubt, but the chaotic thoughts of Decepticons and the grief of lost Autobots. Unknowingly, he had been buffeted by an emotional storm for millennia. Small wonder that, sometimes, he felt like giving up altogether.

“S’funny… this place was so empty when I first arrived.” Thrust said. “Filled up pretty quickly, though. Guess war’ll do that to a race.”

Optimus nodded, understanding more than he let on. The first Matrix, carried by Nemesis Prime, had been a conduit to the Well of All Sparks. The Matrix of Leadership, which he carried, had taken the Well’s place and stored Transformer life energies after death. Primus must have had created but a finite amount of space within the crystal – its “children” were, after all, ageless and practically immortal. The civil war had changed that, shortening life spans to mere vorns.

Looking at the masses and masses of Sparks, wedged inside the azure crystal, Optimus realised space would soon run out. The dead were not resting comfortably.

Thrust floated toward a very large ball of life force. It took up an entire facet of crystal, and its intensity was so bright that Prime shielded his optics. As he drew closer, it changed into a tall, powerfully built Transformer. Its armour was black with purple and green trim – if it was anything like Thrust, it had been white, red and blue in life. It turned to Optimus and spoke his name, welcoming him.

“Metroplex, I presume,” Optimus said.

“The one and only,” the giant replied. “Let me guess… you need some help undoing the work of my idiot friend over here.”

He pointed to another gargantuan robot, one whose arm resembled a large mixing drum. Optimus had never met the mech, but already knew whom he was facing.

“Blender,” he growled.

\-----

“Your acclaim is appreciated, but the work is only half done,” Alpha Trion continued. “We who are gathered here this cycle know of the dark times awaiting our race – the war to come. The arrogance of our leaders ill-prepared us for such tragedies and so these… extreme… measures are necessary.”

The old robot opened a black metal case, revealing the Matrix of Leadership. Crystalline blue light filled the room, twinkling on every polished surface. To Magnus’ astonishment, the illumination had a second effect – small black squares on the torsos of each Transformer flickered to life, displaying green, holographic Autobot symbols.

 _That mark didn’t come into existence until the start of the war_ , he thought to himself. _I was there the cycle it was commissioned! Come to think of it… Alpha was the one who suggested the design._

“Revealed in the light as Matrix Templars,” Alpha Trion said in reverent tones, “we will bear witness to the birth of a leader. He will suffer not the sinful arrogance of Sentinel Prime, who locks the Matrix away rather than carrying it on his person. That blindness gives us access to our sacred relic, and allows us to use it this cycle… even if its theft was necessary.”

 _Which explains how the Council of Ancients was able to give the Matrix to Orion,_ Magnus thought. _Megatron killed Sentinel Prime in battle, only to find the Matrix wasn’t in his chassis. The stuffy old fool didn’t carry it around!_

As Magnus watched, Alpha Trion took the Matrix in his hands and held it aloft. Small gaps opened in the silver handles, allowing the old robot to lock his fingers into it. Magnus had seen that happen only once before – at Optimus Prime’s touch – which meant Alpha Trion was a Matrix bearer!

Words flashed through his memory – Vector Prime’s tale of Cybertron’s creation, the war with Unicron and the banishment. Primus, he’d said, had kept but one drone robot to begin his new race. A robot whose mind had been erased, a robot called A3… or, looked at another way, called _Alpha Trion_.

His old friend and mentor was one of the original 13 Transformers!

\-----

_Seven who fell must not live… seven who fell must not live…_

Time crawled to a standstill. Everything around Silverstreak moved in slow motion, just as they did when he sighted down his Energon rifle. Behind him, Vector Prime stirred with agonizing slowness. Bulkhead was leaning over the railing, gazing madly at the dusty amphitheatre floor far below. The Wrecker watched Optimus Prime speak, waiting for his friends to be saved.

The white Autobot, fuelled by panic, was almost at the fire alarm. One slap of his ivory hand would disrupt the flow of time itself. For better? For worse? No one could possibly know.

He was within paces of the alarm, on the other side of the amphitheatre. The only thing that would stop him now… that would keep history on its correct path… was something out the barrel of Silverstreak’s rifle.

The gunner snatched up his weapon and took aim. Things happened for a reason, he _had_ to believe that – and he would not throw away the hard-fought victories of millennia to cure one Autobot’s mental problems. He whispered a prayer and squeezed the trigger.

The first bolt of pure Energon sizzled over the gap and stabbed into the white Autobot’s knee – staggering but failing to stop him. Silverstreak fired twice more – one shot glanced off the young soldier’s thick chest plate, while the third… burrowed deep into his chassis, underneath his right arm.

With a surprised yelp, the white Autobot dropped to the ground. His hand fell shy of the alarm button by inches, and he grunted sickeningly.

Choking down guilt and nausea, Silverstreak ran across to his innocent victim. The young soldier looked up at him – shock, confusion and rage welling in his optical sensors. It seemed as if he was memorising the gunner’s features… burning them into his processor with the heat of hatred.

“Only… wanted… to help,” he gasped.

Silverstreak looked closely at the crumpled form… and wanted to scream. The second shot had cleaved the soldier’s large, chest-mounted Autobot symbol from top right to bottom left, slashing it diagonally. He’d seen that ruined insignia before – both in the real world and in his nightmares.

He’d shot Wheeljack.

Not the black-armoured, pathological Decepticon murderer, but the innocent Autobot who’d disobeyed orders in an attempt to be a hero. He’d crippled a decent, fearful rookie and, in the process, created a monster that would annihilate Autobot after Autobot for centuries to come.

Wheeljack’s oil lust, his rage, his hatred for Silverstreak had never made sense… because, from the gunner’s perspective, he hadn’t done anything to the Decepticon. But, from Wheeljack’s point of view, he’d done it long, long ago.

“Sweet Primus,” Silverstreak breathed. “Oh, sweet Primus, it can’t be true.”

Something slammed into his back, and he knew instantly it was Bulkhead. The helicopter was _incensed_ , fighting like a mech possessed. “You did it! You’re the one!” he wailed and howled. “You fired the shots that warned the Decepticons – that made Shockblast stay away! Your fault… all of it _your fault_!”

His words made no sense, and Silverstreak made no effort to fight him off. He was too tired, too ill, to care anymore. He just wanted to lie down and deactivate – maybe for a few cycles, maybe forever – and be offline until the pain in his Spark went away.

The flurry of blows stopped. He peered up to see Bulkhead hanging limply in mid-air, his neck tightly gripped by a stern-looking Vector Prime. The gunner could hear screams echoing up the metallic walls, someone yelling “Get your sorry cycloptian chassis in here now”. The battle, it seemed, was raging as history intended.

Vector Prime looked at him sadly. “All is as it should be,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He waved his ornate hand, and Silverstreak felt himself falling through time once again.

\-----

Things were falling into place for Ultra Magnus. It seemed Alpha Trion lead the Matrix Templars – a legendary order charged with guarding the sacred life force. Each Templar bore a mark that would later come to be known as the Autobot symbol. The mark matched the face of Vector Prime, who had been Alpha Trion’s leader in the days of the Unicron war. The old robot’s memory wipe must have been incomplete – or left enough of a ghost on which to build an inspiration.

The gathered Transformers moved back from the workbench, giving Magnus a clear view of the prone form lying there. He’d already guessed what it was – the lifeless chassis of Orion Pax, he who would one day become Optimus Prime.

“I have made him weak and ordinary,” Alpha Trion said, “that he might learn humility and empathy for all peoples – Transformer or Mini-con. When the time is right, the touch of the Matrix will trigger his evolution into our perfect leader. Until then, he will live as one of us, among us, and become all the greater for it.”

The Matrix flared, intensifying the blue halo in the room. It pulsed once, and a Spark burst forth, then hovered in mid air. The sight reduced all in the room to silence, every optic glued to the slow descent of the precious, unique, unfathomable energy of life.

It fell to within a metre of Orion’s chest… then stopped. Abruptly, it began to spin in place, throwing licking flames of blue energy around the room. As the group watched in mute amazement, one Spark split into two – each an identical copy of the other.

“A binary Spark!” someone cried.

The first Spark plunged into Orion’s chest, flooding his systems with life and changing his gunmetal grey armour into a vivid red-and-blue colour scheme. The second bolt of creation energy darted across the room and stabbed into the lifeless Mini-con body on the wall… the body of Rollout.

Panic swept over the gathered Transformers as Magnus’ vision began to fade. Static crept into his optics and audio sensors but, as his systems rebooted, he heard Alpha Trion’s voice.

“One Spark has become two – the hand of Primus is clear in this case. It wishes for the great leader to be twin beings, and I shall raise them as brothers. Till all are one.”

Magnus realised what he had seen – a data track from the Underbase. It had sought him out – perhaps due to his connection with Evac? Likely he would never know – to erase the doubts of a lifetime. He had no more questions… just answers.

He _was_ Optimus Prime’s brother – genetically, not just in name. He was the child of Alpha Trion, one half of the binary Spark of a leader born. Just as the Matrix had reformatted Optimus so, too, had it reformatted Rollout. The golden energy that had fused him with the Overload platform, during that very first Powerlink, had been the power of the Matrix. It sought to make him Prime’s equal, his other half and his balance… so they could end the war together.

Magnus knew, for the first time in his life, that he was not a phoney. He was no scientific accident, no freak of nature. He wasn’t a Mini-con with the copied personality of a great leader, with the accidental body of a fierce warrior. He was, and was always intended to be, the mech he was today. The Transformer he was… the _leader_ he was.

The data track ended and the stars above Cybertron filled his vision… meaning he was still flat on his back. Struggling to his feet, he saw Rodimus, Arcee and Tow-Line struggling to keep Soundwave at bay.

“Stand aside!” he roared, and the Autobots dove for cover. Opening all of his weapons pods, Ultra Magnus fired. Soundwave screamed with pain as round after round of deadly munitions ripped into his chassis. He staggered back, then transformed to his jet mode and took off.

“You alright, Big Bot?” Rodimus asked, and Magnus nodded.

“Well, you’re about to feel a frell of a lot worse,” Tow-Line snapped. “The Iacon walls are completely down, as are most of the automated guns. It’s down to the twelve of us now – and there’s still about a hundred ‘cons floating through the air. I’ve touched base with Crosswise and the others… they’re on their way here to…”

“Turn them back,” Magnus commanded.

“What?”

“I said _turn them back_. Tell them to move into the Decepticon strongholds they’ve claimed and fire up the weapons systems. They’re to target anything with a purple badge, hold their positions and _not_ travel to Iacon – that’s an order.”

Tow-Line gave him a withering look. “Did the lightning fried your logic chips, lad?”

Magnus smiled. “The complete opposite,” he said. “It deleted some bad sectors – a few files I just didn’t need anymore.

“As for the rest, trust me… I have a plan.”

\-----

He’d made it about four kilometres before his lack of a tail fin caused problems. Wobbling like an Empty with a case of fuel-depletion, Starscream landed atop a tall building. He kept shaking in robot mode… this time because of his fury.

That little twerp, Scattorshot, had made an utter mockery of him – of the leader of the Decepticon army! Bad lighting and some sleight of hand had granted the Autobots a victory they didn’t deserve. Meanwhile, his so-called crack troops couldn’t even take down 12 Autobots through sheer weigh of numbers. The entire invasion had been an utter mess, right from the get-go… and it was all _Megatron’s fault_! Hadn’t he said he was going to enact some sort of master plan, guaranteeing them victory?

“What sort of _idiot_ am I to have taken his word?” Starscream wondered aloud.

Megatron was the master deceiver – the king of lies – and he’d played Starscream for a fool. He’d dangled the juicy carrot of leadership and Starscream had sunk his teeth deep into the tasty trap. No doubt ol’ mallet features was back in the orbital command centre, laughing it up, waiting for the proud aerial warrior to get slagged and be out of his way once and for all.

Well, Starscream had no intention of going out so ingloriously. As far the Decepticons were concerned, he was their leader – Megatron ceded command, publicly, right before the invasion. That gave Starscream certain liberties and, more importantly, certain allies who would prove very useful to his future plans.

He lifted his arm and switched on his wrist-mounted communicator. “Soundwave!” he barked, and the giant Decepticon answered immediately. That was Starscream’s sort of second-in-command… an utterly obedient one. “I have a mission for you, old friend… one that will _guarantee_ the future of the Decepticon army.”

\-----

Nightbeat broke free, only to catch Battle Ravage’s tail across his face plate. The studded mace impacted with horrific force, throwing the Autobot across the med bay and into a rack of glassware. It shattered musically, pieces of falling crystal fouling up his optical read-out and preventing him from locking onto his attacker.

By the time his vision cleared, Battle Ravage had vanished. Nightbeat groped around on the floor for his gun. The Decepticon’s intentions were obvious – assassinate Optimus Prime while he lay in a comatose state, robbing the Autobots of their leader, the Matrix and the purple Key in one go.

Long claws pierced his forearm and pinned it to the ground. The metallic jaguar melted out of the shadows and grinned, showing row upon row of jagged fangs. He pressed down on the injured limb. Nightbeat bit back a scream and frantically searched for his missing gun. Battle Ravage said nothing – he never did, by all accounts – and once again opened his powerful jaws for the killing stroke.

A high-pitched wail tore through the med bay, followed an astrosecond later by painfully strobing red light. Battle Ravage howled, sensitivity to light and noise his only weaknesses, and shrank back. The audio-visual assault continued, driving the agony-stricken Terrorcon back into the fleeting shadows.

Nightbeat looked up… and cheered. “Checkpoint!” he cried happily.

His partner was leaning out of a draining CR chamber, working his lights and sirens as loudly and brilliantly as he could. Checkpoint still looked weak, but he managed a wry grin for his old friend. “Why is it, every time I open my optics,” he slurred, “you’re in some kind of trouble?”

Battle Ravage roared, darting toward Checkpoint. The half-blinded Terrorcon leaped at the groggy security expert, fangs bared, intent on slicing him in half.

His pounce was intercepted by a streak of blue and black. It zipped between the two Transformers and thumped the jaguar with machine-gun punches. Battle Ravage let out another scream of pain then half-rolled, half-scrabbled, out of the med bay and onto the streets of Iacon.

Nightbeat helped Checkpoint out of the CR chamber. As soon as the truck-bot was clear, Blur swarmed over the device. Once again it filled with healing fluids… this time around the damaged, greying form of Override.

“She’llbefineIknowitshe’sjustgottabeallrightshe’llbefine,” he blurted, pain and panic etched into his features.

“I hope so, buddy,” Nightbeat said, letting Checkpoint fall into unconsciousness – normal, non-life threatening unconsciousness – on his shoulder. “I really do.” He smiled at his offline partner. Offline but oh, so very _alive_. “And let me tell you, I’m full of hope right now.”

\-----

Snarl’s nostrils filled with the disgusting technorganic scent of Predacon. Even here, on this sterile world far from his beautiful Animatros, the wolf found the mixing of flesh and metal to be utterly repulsive.

The tyrannosaurus rex and his offsider, Cruel Lock, stomped past Snarl’s hiding place. They made no attempt to conceal their approach – they either expected an ambush or didn’t care about one. Snarl grinned cruelly, running his tongue over his fangs. If he felt merciful, later on, they might even live to regret that mistake.

Predacon reached the centre of the chamber and transformed to his robot mode, spreading his arms wide. “It… is _magnificent_ ,” he proclaimed grandly

He reached into his sub-space pocket and took out two items. The first was the green Key of Animatros, and the second was a large golden disc. A variety of symbols were carved into its gleaming surface. Each was a stylised glyph representing one of the Terrorcons – Cruel Lock, Insecticon, Battle Ravage and Divebomb.

Predacon clicked his clawed heels together, the action triggering a partial transformation. Small wheels unfurled from the soles of his feet, and the self-styled religious leader skated across to the main control console.

“Sorry – need arms to use this equipment,” Grimlock roared as he leaped from his hiding place. The Dinobot swung his glowing Energon axe, narrowly missing the Terrorcon leader.

“Ah, the primitive,” Predacon smiled. “Thank you ever so much for your assistance, Grimlock. If not for your complete lack of personal hygiene, the listening device I placed in your armour would have been discovered. Fortunately, it’s been in place long enough for me to learn the secrets of Vector Prime!”

Startled, Grimlock snatched at his shoulder, trying to find the device. It was the opening Cruel Lock needed – with blinding speed, he moved inside the Dinobot’s reach and began cutting at his chest plate, scoring the burnished metal with green Energon. Grimlock merely grunted and brought down the handle of his axe, slamming it into the top of Cruel Lock’s pointed head.

Snarl transformed into his beast mode and pounced, clearing the chamber and landing on Predacon’s back. He dug in with his yellow claws, savouring the feeling of shredding flesh. Perhaps it was the closeness of the Key, but he could feel the old fervour racing through his circuits. He howled with lust for _huntnomore_.

Predacon abruptly shifted into reverse. His skates whipped them both backwards and into the polished walls, the impact knocking the oxygen from Snarl’s intakes. Though dazed, he clung fast to his enemy’s torso

“Do us all a favour and stay down, Fang Wolf,” Predacon cried. “I need you to listen to me, rather than acting like a wild animal!”

“My name,” the wolf grunted, “is _Snarl_.”

“Only when your new friends can hear you,” Predacon winced. “Whatever you’re calling yourself these days, you’re still Fang Wolf – my old rival for Flame Convoy’s approval – and a more scheming Transformer has never been created. I have a proposition for you, my old nemesis… a _bartering_ , if you will.”

Snarl glared. “What are you talking about?”

“The Key,” Predacon grunted, “is only of use to me until that forge is operational. Once it is, I need only my golden disc to create an army of Terrorcon clones. We will wipe out these Cybertronian fools and take over their world, reformatting it into a technorganic paradise.” He smiled. “But there’s no reason to involve you in that.

“All you’ve ever wanted, ‘Snarl’, is to be king of Animatros. I can make that happen. Stand aside and let me achieve my goals. Then, I will give you the green Key and a ship to take you home… back to a blank slate of a world you can mould in your image, all thanks to the power of the Key.”

The emerald disc glittered before Snarl’s optics, hypnotising him. Perhaps Animatros _was_ a dead world… but it had been before Flame Convoy’s arrival, too. If that three-headed buffoon could sculpt an empire from nothing, Snarl… _Fang Wolf_ … could do it easily.

In a trance, he slipped his claws from Predacon’s back and padded gently to the ground, close to the wall.

Snarl watched as Predacon turned and blasted Grimlock, ignoring the bitter taste that filled his mouth. Surely Grimlock would understand, once the battle had ended. Optimus Prime was wrong – the universe was in no danger. Snarl would speak to Predacon and ensure he could take Swerve and the Dinobots back to Animatros with him. The weak could be left to their fates while the strong built a new, better world.

The Dinobot kicked and struggled, but even he could not withstand the onslaught of two heavily armed Terrorcon soldiers. Predacon stomped Grimlock’s face into the metal floor, chuckled, then skated over to the main console.

He slipped the Key into its lock and the spherical room filled with a green light… the glow seemed to rocket back down the tunnel and out to the world above. Dials, switches and screens on the console flared to life, and a disc drive slid open.

Gently, Predacon placed the disc into the tray. He watched gleefully as it booted up, throwing images of the Terrorcons into the screens. A green-lettered message scrolled across the blueprints: _turn key to begin production sequence_.

“Magnificent,” he said again. “The birthplace of the Transformer race shall now to become the site of its _rebirth_.”

He twisted the Key… and all hell broke loose.


	6. Chapter 6

Silver light erupted from the core of the kiln, turning everything in the chamber white. A high-pitched noise scrambled his audio sensors as it doubled and redoubled in the enclosed space. Shapes danced before Predacon’s organic eyes, as if there were lengths of hexagonal chain within the light itself.

“Oh,” he exclaimed. “Oh, it’s so _beautiful_.”

He felt his skin tingling and his circuits buzzing as the “chains” ran up and down the length of his technorganic body. Tongues of steel-coloured flame licked at his heels and tried to singe his head, all to no avail. That horrific sound grew louder, as if his physical form had offended the Plasma Energy Chamber’s volcanic light.

Through the near-blinding strobes, Predacon could see his designs on the central view screen. One by one, the chassis of Insecticon, Battle Ravage, Divebomb and Cruel Lock were rendered in wire frame and dissected by the system, ready for duplication. He had no idea how long it would take, nor did he greatly care – all that mattered was that his Terrorcon army would soon be ready to annihilate all his enemies!

The screen changed from blue to red, flashing a warning. Straining against the light, Predacon read as much of it as he could – something about an improper chamber seal, and the threat of energy leak to the surface.

“No – that won’t do at all,” he sneered, fighting his way through the ionised air towards the control panel. “The last thing I need is for Starscream to see a flash of energy and come snooping around in my affairs. That won’t do at all.”

At the touch of a button, heavy blast doors sealed off the main entrance. The chamber, now a perfect half-sphere, glittered with the light of a million chains wreathing through the air. They reminded Predacon of DNA. It was soothing to think the building blocks of organics and the first Transformers had such similar structures – it validated the path he had walked for so many vorns. It validated the True Path.

The light and heat within the chamber built quickly but Predacon remained puzzlingly unaffected. He glanced across at Grimlock. The Dinobot was half-conscious on the floor, his body jerking and fitting spastically. He grunted and groaned with intense pain, fighting back true screams as knives of silverly light gouged and stabbed him. It looked as though he was being torn apart, inside and out, by the energies Predacon had released. The scientist in him, long buried, rose to the surface.

“Perhaps it’s like Animatros,” the zealot mused. “And only beast modes offer protection was the forces in the air. But that still doesn’t explain my safety.”

There was a shuddering, Spark-wrenching howl from over by the nearest wall. Snarl’s lupine form had turned in on itself, his spine contorted and bent at angles that should have been impossible for a Transformer – for any vertebrate life form. He thrashed and foamed at the mouth, coolant and fuel leaking in unending streams.

“Metal,” Predacon breathed. “The energy attacks and changes metal. Of course, it would have to – forging a living Transformer from inert steel would require some serious molecular rearrangement. Not reformatting as perfected by Megatron, but atomic alteration. Nowadays a Spark does that but, back then, it was all up to the chamber. No wonder we revert to ordinary metal when we die… the energies required to create us, new or ancient, are _phenomenal_ and must always be present.

“Meanwhile I am protected by my technorganic purity, just as should be. As it is written: _Flesh alone is the weakest of all, metal no stronger. Balance is the way, the melding of two words – to be all flesh, or all metal, is to be prey_.”

A malicious thought drifted into his mind and took root.

“Why should I sully my new troops so early?” he mused. “My Terrorcon army shall remain pristine and untouched until we leave this useless metal world. With the right adjustments, I can channel the energy of this chamber to the surface… and reduce every last Transformer to a mess of slag and spilled oil!”

He laughed again. It was a high and rising sound that merged with the noise of the light… a mad crescendo of cacophony.

\-----

“Don’t be too mad with him, Optimus Prime – we’re both dead now, so why dwell on who did what?”

The ghostly image of Metroplex patted the transparent Blender on the back. Optimus had been told, by Landfill, that the Gigalonian mechs had been the best of friends – almost brothers. They’d “run a tight operation” until Metroplex’s officiousness rubbed many the wrong way, and the arguments with Blender began. That had culminated in cold-oiled murder, though no one realised it for millions of years. Blender had almost gotten away with perfect regicide.

It made Optimus shudder. He thought of how close he was to his own best friend, Ultra Magnus. What would happen, he wondered, if Magnus ever decided to make a play for command of the Autobots? Would Prime realise in time, or would he be blinded by his friendship until it was too late? The idea of a treasonous Ultra Magnus – no matter how ridiculous it seemed – made him sick to the Spark.

“Anyway, we don’t have the time for fussing over the past,” Metroplex said amicably. “You want to convince me to merge with my Planet Key and save this here hunk’a junk, right?”

“Strange way to refer to your creator and home world,” Prime said.

Metroplex snorted. “Ain’t much of a creator when he kicks you out on your skid plate ‘cause of his own failings, is he? Nope, I can’t say I have much depth of feeling for Cybertron. Achieved a frell of a lot more on Gigalonia than I ever did here. Ah, Gigalonia… now _there’s_ a world to be proud of.” He elbowed Blender. “Thank the Well you didn’t blow it up, you dumb slagger!” They both laughed.

“It’s not just Cybertron at risk, it’s all worlds!” Optimus cried, frustration boiling over. “The black hole left by the destruction of Unicron is swallowing _my_ world, piece by agonising piece! Do you really think it won’t turn its insatiable attention to every other world Primus touched? Your little purple sandpit will be next on the menu!”

The bigger Transformer held up his hands. “Calm yourself, little Prime,” he said warmly. “I never said I wouldn’t help you, only that I won’t do it for the _really big_ guy’s sake. You need my life force to reactivate the Key and save your people, and I need to fulfil my purpose.”

“Your purpose?”

“What, you think I’ve _liked_ being stuck in this tiny place when I know there’s a job left for the doing? No sir, not me. I’ve never left a shift unfinished yet, and I’m not about to start now. Me and that Key, we’re one – and if it has one last task to perform, then so do I. There’s just one thing you gotta promise me first, Optimus.”

“Name it.”

“Blender ‘n me are both dead, which means no one’s running the show back home. I know you’ve got a lot on your oil pan and all, Optimus, but if you want me to merge with the Key… then you got to be the foreman on Gigalonia for me.”

The Autobot leader nodded. “I understand,” he said. “You need to save your people, as well. I promise that, as soon as Cybertron and the universe are safe, I’ll… tighten up the operation… on Gigalonia.”

Metroplex smiled sadly, clasped his hands together and popped his iron-rivet knuckles. “Then it’s time to knock this ol’ structure down.”

His body shimmered, turned white and _evaporated_ , reforming into a perfect ball of Spark energy. The blue-white orb floated over to Optimus and settled into his outstretched hands, then vanished. Somehow, he knew it had merged with the Planet Key, and would be waiting for him when he returned to his body.

Optimus turned to Blender and Thrust, nodding curtly. “Time to go,” he said. “I’ll… see what I can do about freeing up some space in here for you all.”

“You do that,” Thrust said lightly.

The Autobot leader concentrated, focusing his will on his roaming Spark. His floating consciousness called to his distant processor, re-establishing their link. He started to feel his etheral form stretch, as if it were being pulled back into his body. Darkness flickered at the corners of his vision and lights pinwheeled before him. It was a dizzying experience, but somehow comforting... like coming home.

“Oh, and Optimus?" he heard Thrust snicker. "Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

The Decepticon stepped lightly forward and threw out a first, smashing Optimus in the jaw. Despite their lack of physical form, the punch hurt severely and threw him backwards, into one of the many crowded clusters of Spark energy. There was no time to retaliate... Prime felt his mind slipping away from him, and unconsciousness beckoned.

“What I said about not holding grudges?” Thrust called as darkness claimed him. “It doesn’t apply to the _living_!”

\-----

_Now I know what living with a bunch of Decepticons would be like_ , Swerve groused. _Don’t they ever switch off their synthesisers? Sheesh!_

Tidal Wave, Demolishor and Snow Cat were still yelling, making all sorts of threats and venomous promises from their cells inside Fortress Maximus. Their curses floated up the elevator shaft and mingled with the frustrations of Red Alert and Downshift, the Autobot geniuses-in-residence. Despite their combined processing power… and enviable knowledge of science and engineering… the duo had failed to get the enormous battle station into the war effort.

“Biometric interface?” Red Alert called.

“Tried it,” Downshift replied. “Sub-dermal cybernetic sensors?”

“Nothing of the sort,” the doctor sighed.

Swerve walked further from them. His mind wandered, as it so often did… it was the reason he crashed so often in car mode. What had Magnus been thinking, sending him along on this mission? He was no scientist, he was a metallurgist – and given the current state of his hand sensors, not much of one. He didn’t have the _first clue_ about the workings of enormous war chariots!

“Wait a second…” he said. Something in that last recrimination made sense to him. Playing a hunch, he rode the elevator down to the detention level and, ignoring the abuse, dashed to the cell containing Rumble and Frenzy. The tiny Gigalonians cowered in the rear corner, screaming that their execution had arrived.

“Don’t be stupid,” Swerve snapped. “All I want to do is see your hands.”

Frenzy looked up and sniffled like a human child. “Our hands? Really? Then you’ll let us go?”

The Autobot shook his head. “Sweet Primus, you’re a slow one,” he muttered. “Show me your damn hands, you little urchins!”

He was unaccustomed to speaking with such force but it had the desired effect – terrified, Rumble and Frenzy thrust out their small black digits. Though they were from an alien world, the design was intimately familiar to Swerve… something he’d seen every single day of his existence.

“You’re miners, right? I mean, that’s what you’re meant to be doing, rather than murdering and deceiving and making nuisances of yourselves.”

The diminutive duo nodded hurriedly. Swerve transformed and sped back to the elevator, willing it to move faster than before, then roared into the cockpit area. Pushing past Red Alert and Downshift, he pulled up by the main console and transformed again.

“What in the Allspark has gotten into you?” Downshift thundered.

Swerve ignored him and focused on the console. Fortress Maximus had been built for a giant Transformer to ride. The cockpit was more a secondary control system than anything, installed because of Blender’s alliance with the tiny twerps. Neither of them would have the first clue how to operate its incredible weaponry, so the controls had to be instinctive… and designed to interface with their existing systems and circuitry. Their existing _mining, surveying and metallurgical_ systems and circuitry!

As he’d guessed, there were two slots _below_ the main console, underneath the lip of one of the keyboards. They were too small for a Transformer’s arms and too large for a Mini-cons’… making them just the right size for a cowardly, slag-nosed Flyer. He stared at his ruined hands, hoping one or two of his twisted fingers would fit into the slots – and have enough internal functions to fire up the fortress.

“Swerve?” Red Alert asked cautiously. “What are you planning to do?”

“Make a wild leap of logic,” Swerve grimaced, and thrust the index and middle fingers of both hands into the machinery. There was a spluttering noise, a hum of internal processors, and then…

… and then a new world appeared before his optical sensors. Through a red haze, he saw the battlefield – all of it, both sky and ground. With a thought, he looped blue circles around the invaders. By flexing his fingers, he caused the behemoth to transform. Red Alert and Downshift cried out in surprise as Fortress Maximus shifted and warped around them, reconfiguring from city to chariot. Mighty cannons rose from every armoured surface, while missile batteries zeroed in on every Decepticon in sight. Suddenly, they all looked _so very small_ to Swerve.

“Bye-bye, bad guys,” he whispered.

\-----

The ground shook with the thunder of Fortress Maximus’ guns. They spewed flames and shells and laser fire into the sky, and missiles across the ground. Every shot unerringly struck Decepticon, leaving the Autobots unharmed.

Hours later, Ultra Magnus would learn what happened inside the giant base – how Swerve’s hands had guided every munition, how his wandering mind had found focus at long last. That would be hours later – at that moment, as the hail of weaponry decimated the Decepticons, Magnus knew just one thing.

“Victory!” he whooped, raising his weapon and adding to the chaos. “Autobots, drive them back! Drive them out of Iacon!”

Rodimus, Arcee and Tow-Line looked at him in shock, surprised by his uncharacteristic elation. Landfill mirrored his broad grin, while Omega Supreme clenched his claw fist and smiled. Suddenly, the idea of 12 Autobots fighting off the entire Decepticon army didn’t seem so foolish after all.

“Who called in an air strike while I was gone?” drawled a welcome voice. Scattorshot raced across to them, pulling in alongside Magnus and transforming to robot mode. Vector Prime was right behind him, with Silverstreak trailing behind. The gunner looked haunted but determined… even eager to start shooting.

“Bulkhead?” Magnus asked.

“He is… indisposed,” Vector Prime said cryptically. “But he is in a safe place. We shall discuss his status and fate once the enemy has been repelled.”

Once upon a time, Magnus would have zeroed in on that problem, running it endlessly through his processor and wondering what he’d done to cause it. Now, he turned his attention to more important matters. He had an army of 12… no, of 15… to lead.

“Did I miss something,” sneered a new voice, “or are we actually _winning_ this thing?” It was Thundercracker, his trademark smirk plastered on his face plate. His blue bodywork was scorched and dented, and he walked with a slight limp. In one hand he carried his wing sword and, in the other… was Shockblast’s severed left arm.

The ex-Decepticon followed Magnus’ gaze. “Told ya I was on your side,” he shrugged.

Magnus activated his communicator. “Red Alert,” he called. “I need you to push the Decepticons south toward Uraya.” He didn’t wait for an acknowledgement but instead turned to Tow-Line.

“Patch me in to the resistance cell leaders,” he ordered. “It’s time to close the trap.”

“What trap?” Tow-Line asked.

Magnus grinned. “The Decepticons are about to become homeless.”

\-----

Soundwave weaved through the carnage, ignoring the death rattles of his fellow warriors. Hordes of Decepticons were dropping from the sky like fiery hailstones. It seemed he was the only one capable of slipping past the murderous gaze of the battle station, thanks to his numerous redundant stealth systems. The fate of others… save for Laserbeak… did not concern him. He was focused on his mission.

Undetected, he flew close to the station’s central tower and transformed. One of his bass line bombs made short work of the thick armoured wall and gave him access to the interior… to the detention bay. He stepped in front of the cells.

“Soundwave?” Demolishor grunted. “Am I seeing things? You’re alive?”

“Obviously he’s alive, you nickel-plated dum-dum,” Snowcat yelled. “Soundwave, ol’ buddy ol’ pal, you’ve come to bust us outta the joint, right?”

Soundwave nodded.

“Then quit standin’ around and get these cages open!” Tidal Wave boomed. “There’s a fight out there I wanna be in on!”

Soundwave shook his head.

“Whaddya mean, no?”

“We have a different mission,” Soundwave intoned. “You will be freed and, in exchange, you will swear loyalty to your new commander… Starscream.”

Tidal Wave slapped the bars of his cell. “Starscream? No frelling way! That chump almost got me killed during one o’ the first Energon raids we did! He’s an idiot, he’s fulla himself, he’s got a really annoying voice and he’s a slaggin’ coward! There ain’t _no way_ I’m marching to his drum beat, you understand?”

“Then you stay here.”

The pirate’s optics widened. He’d known Soundwave long enough to realise the communicator didn’t joke. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’m in, I’m Starscream’s mech. Just get me outta here.”

Snow Cat and Demolishor quickly added their support, as did two unfamiliar Transformers. “We’re with you too, big guy!” they called. “Heck, we’ll swear loyalty to this Starscream guy _and_ to you personally! You get us out and we’re _yours_ , man!”

He looked them over. “Frenzy and Rumble”, read the legend on their door. They didn’t appear to have much power but, as Soundwave knew, appearances were deceiving. He nodded to them, and then cheered.

Soundwave opened four of the five cells, freeing the Decepticons, the Flyers and Crumplezone. He strolled over to Wheeljack’s cell and glared at the fuming killer.

“I’ve never trusted you,” he said.

A massive hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up at Crumplezone, who was staring at him quizzically. _Can the beast even think?_ Soundwave wondered. The Speedia native pointed toward Wheeljack and grunted.

“He remains here,” Soundwave said. “You will join us.”

Crumplezone shook his head and knuckled back to his cell. He pulled at the bars until they locked in place, imprisoning him once more. “Fuh… rend,” he slurred.

“Whatta maroon,” Snow Cat giggled.

It mattered not to Soundwave – he’d completed his mission, as per Starscream’s orders. The future of the Decepticons was assured… Megatron’s elite was honour-bound to follow a new leader. He’d even picked up subordinates of his own, and flunkies never went astray in the world of a blackmailer.

He gestured, and the group followed him out onto the battlefield. Transforming to their vehicle modes, they sped away.

\-----

Predacon beat the air with his hands, laughing as the silver chains sloughed off of him. “Didn’t I tell you, Cruel Lock?” he called to his lieutenant. “Didn’t I promise you’d be by my side in our moment of _triumph_!”

There was no answer. Predacon spun around, trying to find his favourite Terrorcon in the maelstrom. He caught sight of a green and orange leg and gasped – Cruel Lock was on the ground, screaming in agony and clutching his ruptured body. Subjected to the forces of the Plasma Energy Chamber, all his old wounds had reopened. Worse, new ones had formed… some by his own hand as his claws had jerked spastically across his hide. The velociraptor was a mess of exposed wiring and leaking fluid.

Predacon looked at his lieutenant, then back at the kiln. There was no way to tell how long the manufacturing process would take – how many breems would pass before his clone army rolled off the assembly line. But Cruel Lock looked so damaged, so scarred… could he hang on long enough for their agenda to be carried out?

“It doesn’t matter,” Predacon told himself. “This is about victory, about the ascension of the True Path. Sacrifices must be made.”

Even as he said the words, he regretted them. He thought back to Animatros, to the mad designs of Flame Convoy. The demi-god had consumed his own soldiers in a relentless quest for flesh – murdered two of them before Predacon’s own eyes! The zealot could still see their bones rattling horribly on the floor of the Ark.

“Am I any different, then?” Predacon asked aloud.

He’d been disgusted by Flame Convoy’s actions – they’d been enough to drive him to rebellion. His Terrorcons had followed him without question, risking their own existences in the process. Cruel Lock had been willing to lay down his life to battle Flame Convoy, all because he believed in Predacon and his teachings. Now he was being sacrificed for them on an altar or agony, betrayed by his master and his faith for no sin greater than absolute trust and dedication.

“I _will_ be different!” Predacon roared, drawing his tail whip. With a flick of his wrist, the weapon struck the Planet Key, turned it to one side and de-powered the Plasma Energy Chamber. The wail of the kiln silenced and the silver energy dissipated. Cruel Lock stopped screaming.

So, too, did Fang Wolf and Grimlock. The Dinobot began to recover, dragging himself to his feet and wielding his Energon axe limply. “Don’t know… what you playing,” he grunted, “but me… still stop you.”

“Peace, Grimlock, peace,” Predacon said softly. “You have already won. The Planet Key is yours.” He stepped across to Cruel Lock and drew him up in his arms “Our personal war is over – I have spared your life twice, and you are now in _my_ debt. We’ll now take our leave.”

He turned his back on Grimlock, confident the Dinobot would not strike, and walked away. As he passed Fang Wolf, Predacon favoured him with a sinister smile. _Oh yes, I know your true nature_ , he thought. _And it’s information that will be quite useful to the next phase of my plan_.

As expected, his Terrorcons were waiting for him on the surface. Battle Ravage seemed to be having trouble with optics, and Buzzsaw was still in pieces. Insecticon was singed but Divebomb was grinning – yet another encounter with Swoop had left his circuits sparking. “Is it time?” the bird-bot asked.

Predacon nodded. “Phase one of our agenda has failed, and so we shall move on to phase two. Head back to our ship and make ready for departure… our destiny no longer lies with the Decepticon cause.”

The Terrorcons transformed to beast mode, Divebomb taking the injured Cruel Lock gently in his talons. Predacon changed into a tyrannosaurus rex and led them north, away from Iacon and from the Decepticon lines.

Loyalty and faith had cost him an army, but he was not bitter. In the end, it would matter little. A great change was coming, for Transformers and organics alike… and the Terrorcons would be its heralds.

\-----

“Fall back!” Starscream yelled, his synthesiser hoarse. “Would you bunch of idiots please _fall back_ before we’re shot to scrap by that thing?”

One by one, the tattered remnants of his invasion force changed vectors and fell into line. Starscream raged silently. Even news of Soundwave’s success couldn’t lift his mood. What good was acquiring five more troops when you’d lost close to 100 in someone else’s hair-brained invasion? His first foray as Decepticon commander had been an utter failure, and it wasn’t even his fault!

He flew over the Uraya border and relaxed a little. In curt terms, he ordered the survivors split up and return to their individual commands across the planet.

It didn’t matter, he supposed, that they’d screwed up the invasion. Every Decepticon knew Iacon was an impenetrable fortress, a stronghold that had lasted for nine million years. He doubted any of his new troops would hold it against him, especially seeing as Megatron had ordered the attack. If anything, this could serve to cement his hold on the glitching fools!

As their Urayan fortress came into view, Starscream permitted himself a laugh. Megatron had planned the invasion as a way of bumping off his ambitious aerospace commander – of removing the competition! Instead, he’d managed to sew the seeds of a coup… one that would grant Starscream the position he so richly deserved.

He heard a strangled cry over his communicator. The signal was patchy and so he boosted it – only to be nearly deafened by the sound of artillery fire. “What’s going on?” he barked. “Who’s shooting?”

“Our own base!” came the astonished reply. “The Autobots, they… they must’ve moved in while we were gone… shells everywhere… can’t…” The transmission ended in a hiss of static.

Starscream looked up at the Urayan fortress. “Oh no,” he whispered.

He pulled up, barely avoiding the incoming fire. The Decepticons behind him weren’t so lucky – they were shredded by the very cannons they’d manned for vorns. Wave after wave of soldiers were blown to pieces, littering the Urayan surface with shrapnel and debris.

“Run away!” Starscream yelled. “Run away!”

The survivors followed him into the sky, quickly joined by Soundwave’s group. “Reports coming in,” the blue giant intoned. “All bases compromised. Autobots have taken possession of all assets and weaponry. Autobot control of Cybertron at 80 per cent and rising. Shockblast among the missing and presumed off-line.”

“It’s not fair!” Starscream wailed.

A missile rocketed past him, missing by inches. “That sinks it – we’re out of here,” he snapped. “Tell anyone who’s still functioning to regroup at the orbital base immediately. And be sure to remind them _Megatron_ is responsible for the Decepticons losing their grip on Cybertron after nine million years!”

Soundwave nodded and relayed the message. Though still furious, Starscream began plotting – it was what he did best, after all. There was no situation so bad that a little cunning couldn’t fix it.

\-----

Ultra Magnus watched the carnage on Tow-Line’s view screen. Behind them, Rodimus whistled. “It’s a thing of beauty,” he quipped.

“More like a necessary evil,” Swerve replied distastefully. He and the others had arrived a few moments earlier, heady with success but dour at the savagery of their means. Downshift was already tinkering with the metallurgist’s hands, the instruments suddenly rising to the very top of his “to do” list.

“We didn’t ask for a massacre,” Magnus said. “They started this conflict – all we did was finish it.”

“Now _that’s_ the sort of confidence I like to hear in my field commanders,” called a familiar voice.

The Autobots cheered as Optimus Prime walked toward them. Grimlock, Snarl, Blur, Nightbeat and a _very battered_ Swoop were right behind their leader. So, too, was a very welcome sight – Checkpoint, back on his feet and walking tall. The security expert had a glowing purple disc in his hand… the Planet Key of Gigalonia, activated for the first time in millions of years.

Prime raised his fist to Magnus as he approached, but the Earthforce commander surprised him with a happy embrace. “Well done, brother,” Magnus said.

Optimus looked at him strangely, but then laughed. “I can honestly say I know how hard a ghost can punch,” he said. “And what it feels like to live on a Cybertron free of the Decepticon menace, thanks to you.” He opened his arms wide. “Thanks to _all_ of you, my brave Autobots.”

Checkpoint handed the final Planet Key to Vector Prime, who looked at it and sighed. “At long last,” the old mech intoned, “we can save our world.”

“Then let’s get moving,” Optimus said confidently. “We have a god to awaken.”


	7. Chapter 7

He refused to look down at the ruined husk of his beloved city. Doing so would cause his chassis to shake with grief. Though the Autobots had won the day, Optimus Prime felt they had sacrificed Cybertron’s last drop of purity to do so.

The Decepticons had been dealt a sorely deserved defeat. From their eaves dropping on enemy communications, it seemed the legend of the walls of Iacon had given way to a new tale. Now their foes spoke, in hushed tones, of Ultra Magnus and the tiny cadre that fought off an invasion… of “The Impossibles”.

The Autobots were in high spirits – flushed with success, elated to be functioning after the oil-chilling assault. They had achieved the impossible, all right… transforming mutually assured destruction into planetary liberation. And while it did his fuel pump good to see his warriors happy, Optimus could not shake the sadness from his frame.

Firstly, he knew the battle was far from over. Megatron had yet to be sighted – even by his own troops, from what Tow-Line had gleaned. Optimus would not relax until he’d stared into the optics of his ancient enemy and heard him surrender with his own audio sensors. Starscream could claim what he liked about succession, but Megatron would remain in Optimus’ thoughts until he’d seen the despot’s dull, steely corpse.

Secondly, every blow his warriors had parried – every missile they’d dodged – had scarred the beauty of Iacon. Largely untouched during millennia of fighting, the gilded city was now irrevocably tarnished. Gleaming plains he’d driven over in his youth were now shredded. Buildings he’d admired were rubble. Places of worship, of quiet contemplation, of knowledge… all turned to ruin.

He knew, at last, how Silverstreak felt. The gunner’s home city had been razed in the first Decepticon attack. A native of Iacon, Optimus’ home had been relatively safe, even during the worst of the fighting. No more. The civil war had finally claimed the last bastion of the Golden Age.

“Are you all right?”

He shook his head clear and focused on his task. “Yes, Over-Run,” he said gently, not wishing to alarm the Mini-con. “I was just lost in thought for a moment.”

“Not to be rude, but get your mind on the job,” the smaller robot said testily. “I would have thought you to be the last mech needing a reminder of the stakes.”

Optimus did not respond, but tightened his grip on the Planet Key and rose further into the air.

Flight was a rare capability amongst Transformers – one of the reasons Megatron so valued it in his troops – and beyond the abilities of most Autobots. Optimus could only defy gravity when Over-Run, the oldest and wisest of the Mini-cons, coupled with the Powerlinx port on his spine. In his jet mode, Over-Run doubled as a rocket pack for the Autobot leader, giving him limited but useful flight time.

It was a skill that had allowed him to deflect the planet-killing Hydra Cannon, years earlier in the skies above Earth. Today, it let him put the capstone on the entire Planet Key affair.

Three of the Keys had already been inserted – in the Iacon cliffs, in the Underbase and in the highly destructive Plasma Energy Chamber. Slotting the fourth Key into the very top of the Tower of Pion was the penultimate step to awakening their “god”, Primus, and ending the threat of the black hole once and for all. He felt the deadly dark mass change the gravity around him, skewing his path and buffeting his metalwork. Paying it as little heed as he could, Optimus pushed onward.

“Whatever you do, don’t drop that Key,” Over-Run nattered. “I certainly don’t have the power to make this trip a second time.”

“Then you should have let Sparkplug come along, as he offered,” Optimus retorted. “He could have boosted both our power levels and made this an easier trip.”

“Too much weight. _You_ should have let someone with proper flight capabilities handle this mission,” the Mini-con said haughtily.

Again, Optimus remained silent. He felt no need to explain himself to his sometime-partner… a mech too fastidious at the best of times. He would honour his promise to Metroplex – and his commitment to Gigalonia – the best way he knew how… by taking matters into his own hands.

The top of the tower came into view. Though he’d seen it many times, both in person and on view screen, Optimus looked at the celestial spires with a fresh optic. Contours and designs that had once seemed functional, he realised, served to obscure a small slot… a crevice into which he thrust the Key.

The disc glowed vividly, then sent a burst of purple energy running down the length of the tower. It spread out from its base and across the marred landscape, turning all of Iacon lavender for the briefest of moments. The final Key had been inserted… now all that remained was to activate Vector Sigma.

“I barely saw Bulkhead on the battlefield,” Over-Run sniffed as they began to descend. Obviously, the Mini-con would not let the matter drop. “Surely he could have fluttered up here… or whatever it is helicopters do… and made himself useful?”

Optimus sighed. _Bulkhead_ , he thought grimly. _Another problem that needs to be sorted out._

\-----

“I did it, at least in part, to save you.”

“Which doesn’t make it any easier to deal with, does it?”

“No.”

Silverstreak slumped deeper into his chair. A few feet away, Red Alert sat ramrod straight, watching his every move. They’d been best friends for millions of years, the gunner remembered, but they could not have been more different mechs.

They’d never been alike, even back when they’d first met. Silverstreak was the garrulous fool, hiding his anguish and fear of battle behind a veil of cheap jokes and snappy patter. Red Alert, meanwhile, was the rough-and-tumble warrior, strapping all manner of ordnance to his chassis while forever coated in someone else’s oil. Back then, he’d looked more like a tank than a car, bearing a long-range missile on one shoulder and wearing body armour several inches thick.

The trenches outside Iacon had changed them both.

Though still quick with a joke, Silverstreak had learned patience, skill and courage. His anxiety toward face-to-face combat made him a deadly sniper. Red Alert had almost died, saved only by the intervention of Ratchet, the near-legendary medic. He’d given up his war-like ways… and his souped-up body… to study with the cantankerous genius and, after Ratchet’s death, taken over his role.

Some claimed Red Alert’s first surgical procedure was to remove his own personality, but Silverstreak knew that was far from the truth. If anything, the officious doctor cared too much about his patients. His cool demeanour was as much a veil as the gunner’s stand-up comedian routine. Silverstreak wondered how much his return to violence… his role in operating Fortress Maximus… had affected him.

“I have to tell you,” Red Alert said, “that, in my opinion, you’re going to be fine.”

“Your opinion,” Silverstreak chuckled. “Psycho-analysed a lot of time travellers, have we? Diagnosed a lot of post-chronal stress in our time, yes?”

The doctor smiled faintly. “Keep it up,” he said. “All you’re doing is supporting my hypothesis: he who can make jokes can cope with anything. You’ve proven it time and again, and will do so now.”

Silverstreak grimaced. “You’re not actually depressed if you’re able to be happy about stuff, right?”

Red Alert nodded. “Even if you were clinically depressed, I’m not sure I’d recommend my services,” he said quietly. “My success rate with processor malfunction isn’t all that good right now.”

As one, they gazed toward the back of the med bay. They looked past the CR chamber containing Override – ignoring the rapid pacing of a nervous Blur – to a horizontal table in a darkened corner. Atop it lay Bulkhead, the surviving Wrecker and instigator of Silverstreak’s unwilling trip to the past. The powerful Autobot was in medically induced stasis lock, both for his own safety and to protect the rest of the team.

“I know what you’re going to say, so save it,” Red Alert quipped. “CINS can’t be cured, it can only be managed, and there’s nothing I can do if the patient refuses to take part in a proper treatment program.” He hung his head. “Just as in your situation, pleasant words don’t do a lot. Time is the only remedy.”

Silverstreak nodded. “I keep thinking… I mean, I _know_ history has _happened_ , and the result is the world we’re living in,” he said. “But at the same time, I was the one who fired those shots. With one burst, I triggered the amphitheatre massacre _and_ turned an innocent robot evil. And I always have been – it only just happened for me but, for everyone else, it’s a stain that’s been soaking in for more than eight million years.

“Does that make me responsible for all those deaths – both on that night, and those at Wheeljack’s hands in all the vorns that followed? Or is it Bulkhead’s fault for dragging me back there? And, if he’d never gotten CINS and never wanted to go back, would history have changed or would it be the same?”

Red Alert’s expression did not change. “I wish I had an answer for you. Still, at least you’re talking to me and getting it out of your system.” He jerked a thumb toward Bulkhead. “Bottling things up… or keeping secrets… only ever leads to misery.”

\-----

Downshift whistled appreciatively. Grimlock winced as the shrill sound cut through his audio sensors. Having survived the din and chaos of the Plasma Energy Chamber, he wasn’t really in the mood for any more noise.

“Cut it out, Downshift!” he barked, his voice even more fearsome in his tyrannosaurus rex alternate mode. “Head ringing enough already, so no make it jangle more, okay?”

The engineer looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Grimlock,” he said, “but you gotta admit, this is one impressive place. The womb o’ the entire Transformer race – activated and ready to be studied!”

The Dinobot made a disgusted sound. “Big flipping deal.” He admitted to himself – grudgingly, of course – the place had a certain atmosphere. When it wasn’t trying to melt him into slag or bombard his brain with a light and sound show, the chamber had a strange sense of purity. Downshift ran around it with all the curiosity of a protoform, refusing to touch switches while _oohing_ and _aahing_.

“Imagine,” he said wistfully. “Back when this was used, there weren’t any protoforms. Transformers were forged in this chamber and then had Sparks added, infusin’ the steel with life an’ personality!

“I think I finally understand why our bodies revert to inert metal when we die… it’s a throwback t’ our evolutionary beginnings.”

“Pah,” Grimlock spat through sharp teeth. “We not carbon based. We machines, no evolution necessary. Just different manufacturing techniques, is all.”

“I disagree,” Downshift continued, running his hands over the control panel. It glistened in the emerald light of the Planet Key. “Our entire genesis mirrors cellular division. One cell, namely Primus, became many… the entire Transformer race. You could make a good argument there’s some sort of… cyber DNA, I dunno… guidin’ the way the grey goop of a protoform turns into a hard-fightin’ mech.”

Grimlock snorted and thundered away, swishing his tail. It was all too esoteric for him. Sure, he understood what Downshift was babbling about… he just didn’t _give a slag_. If you divided the Autobot army into thinkers and doers, the Dinobot was a proud member of the second group.

And, right now, he had to do something about Snarl.

Had his optics been faulty, or had white wolf abandoned him in the heat of the battle? He’d been tussling with that idiot Cruel Lock – the wannabe dinosaur – and got hit from behind by Predacon – another dumb dino. Snarl _should_ have backed him up but, from what Grimlock saw, the wolf had hung back deliberately.

Back on Animatros, he’d thought he’d found a kindred spirit – another proud warrior misjudged and mistreated by his peers. In the wolf he'd seen a noble fury similar to his own, a matching air of superiority. Grimlock had been prepared to induct him into his group on a permanent basis… to let him tag along with Swoop and Swerve on whatever mission cropped up next. Now… now, he wasn’t so certain.

“This is amazin’,” Downshift called from the control panel. “The system only has settings for 13 types a’ robot, just like Vector Prime said. Somehow, that limited number o’ designs gave rise to planets fulla Transformers, each as different from the other as can be. Guess it really is environment that defines ya.”

 _Environment?_ Grimlock wondered. _Maybe that the bit I’m missing. Me sided with dumb ‘cons for a while, but Snarl “raised” a Decepticon – or Purple Mask, he say. Treachery, deceit, lies… all ways of life on Animatros. When he say he side with me, with Swerve and Dinobots, maybe that personal loyalty only. Not extend to Autobots and overall mission. Opportunistic, which not good thing… too much like Starscream._

_Question is, what me do now? Miss days when me no think stuff through so much. Want to be good leader, so got to make plans and be rational like Prime say. Not like it much. Rather just tear Snarl’s head off and worry about consequences later._

_Yeah, right… keep telling myself that, and even me will start to believe it._

_Maybe not worry about it for now. Keep things to myself, keep close optic on Snarl. Could be me wrong and he not hang back – could be Predacon have null ray or something. May be plausible excuse in all this. Still, if not, at least stuffy traitor be close enough for me to slag without warning._

“Well, there’s nothing I can do here now,” Downshift said, “not without slaggin’ us both, anyway. We should head back and meet up with the others. Prime’ll have that Key in soon, and there’s no way I wanna miss out on seeing Vector Sigma.”

He slapped Grimlock on the back. “Thanks for lettin’ me come down here.”

The Dinobot smiled horribly, every tooth glowing as purple light suddenly, unexpectedly, filled the Chamber.

“Thank _you_ ,” he said. “You give me bit of perspective.”

\-----

They gathered by the door, pausing to look at the glyph marking the entrance. Part Autobot, part Decepticon, the design unnerved the warriors who had so recently fought off an invasion. For Optimus Prime, it was a reminder of the truths he had learned within the Matrix… that there was no true difference between the factions, save for the choices they made.

Twenty Autobots… and one ex-Decepticon… shifted uncomfortably to the sides of the narrow passage, making way for Vector Prime. No one was prepared to miss out on the culmination of their struggles. Omega Supreme had downloaded into his head module while Checkpoint had insisted on attending – even though he could barely stand. While concerned about reprisals, Optimus had given them all permission to come along. Something in his Spark told him they _needed_ to see this with their own optics.

Vector Prime drew his sword and ran its tip down the centre of the door. It split accommodatingly to reveal an area unlike any other on Cybertron. Instead of the silver and gold metals of their home world, the chamber before them had walls of rich, dark blue. A purple grid ran over every surface and onto the floor, which ended abruptly in a deep, dark pit.

“An’ here I thought I was done with creepy places for the cycle,” Scattorshot drawled.

The joke broke the tension, and the Autobots laughed. Vector Prime silenced them with a glare. Though he had given up his ministerial ways, it was clear the ancient mechanoid still demanded a level of reverence for their creator.

Thundercracker tutted, but Optimus waved him quiet. It was not the time to antagonise the oldest among them. If Astroscope was correct, the black hole had _grown_ during the invasion. Optimus was not surprised. During the Unicron Battles, the Chaos Bringer had fed on the negative energies of the civil war. The black hole… his legacy, his grave marker… no doubt did the same. It was yet another reason to end this fiasco once and for all.

Vector Prime strode toward the pit, his footsteps echoing for a seeming eternity. Optimus and the others followed, more quietly, keeping well away from the Well of All Sparks – the receptacle for the spent life energies of the Transformer race. As bearer of the Matrix, Optimus could feel the pit calling to him. Inside his chest, the Sparks of thousands of Transformers begged for release. He fought back a wave of emotion, the anxieties of the dead, and tried to focus.

“Primus!” Vector Prime bellowed, stunning them all. “Though you ordered me not to, I have returned to this, the centre of your being, to pay tribute and seek your divine shelter. Your body is ready and now… now I awaken your mind.”

He hunched forward, cupping his hands over the blue circle on his torso. Silver energies danced between his fingertips and into the shape, then fired back out and spun in mid air. Tendrils of blue leeched out of the walls around him and wormed into the chaotic shape, spinning it faster and faster. With a clap of thunder, the whirling vortex stopped and Vector Prime closed his hands around a large disc that protruded from a slot above his waist.

The Planet Key he held was different from all the others. It bore the marks of all the other artefacts – the dawning light of knowledge, the heated forge, the dash of lightning, the mighty gear – as well as a pictograph of Vector Prime’s own face. Those symbols were encircled with thick silver plating, while the edges of the Key resembled a stopwatch and cogs.

The ancient robot disconnected the device from his body and held it aloft. Every wall flared to life – dark blue and purple sloughed off and ran into the deep pit, making it glow with unnatural light. The Autobots were surrounded with brilliant white, forcing them to shield their optics. Fighting the glare, Optimus saw a large golden sphere descend from the ceiling and hover over the centre of the pit.

“I am Vector Sigma!” the sphere bellowed in a harsh, grating voice. “Before Cybertron was, _I_ was! Who reactivates me?”

“I, Vector Prime,” the ancient robot responded. “One of your own creations.”

“Why have you done this thing?” the sphere demanded.

Someone behind Optimus sniggered. “That’s our god?” Thundercracker asked. “So when the universe was handing out deities, the Transformers were off getting an oil change, right?”

“Be still, Decepticon!” Vector Prime snapped. “This is the supercomputer performing its most basic functions – just as the Underbase has lo, these many centuries. Once the Key is inserted, such programming will fall away and the consciousness of our creator… of Primus… will return to prominence.”

Without warning, the room erupted in a chorus of screaming. Optimus heard Blur, then Rodimus and Arcee, wail in unimaginable pain. As their bodies crashed to the floor, he heard Nightbeat and the others… even Thundercracker and Ultra Magnus… bellow in agony and collapse.

He turned, drawing his ion rifle at the same time, but the weapon was struck from his hands by purple electricity. Optimus winced and grabbed at his injured hand – behind him, Vector Prime dropped both his sword and the Key. A dark figure strode toward them, stepping over the bodies of the felled Autobots with nary a backward glance.

Their attacker stood twice Optimus’ height, and seemed to be composed mainly of jagged edges. Its black feet were broad and flat, while its legs were thick and, in places, disc-shaped. Its arms were clad in orange and black armour, hues that clashed with the dull grey of its squat, boxy torso. A Decepticon insignia adorned its chest plate, while two skeletal wings thrust up from its shoulders and hung down its back. Beneath two large, razor-sharp purple horns was a horrifyingly familiar face plate… etched with features Optimus had seen in a thousand nightmares.

“Megatron,” he hissed.

The Decepticon leader, the bane of Cybertron, nodded once and flexed his powerful-looking torso. “One shall stand, one shall fall,” he announced threateningly.

Prime shook his head and dropped into a fighting stance, activating his forearm-mounted blaster ports. “Don’t throw away your life so recklessly,” he taunted. “I’ll admit that’s a fancy suit of armour you’ve cobbled together from Unicron’s remains, but Megatron masquerading as a Chaos Bringer is still just Megatron.”

“No!” Vector Prime cried, reaching across and grabbing Optimus’ shoulders. “You are gravely mistaken! I know the evil you face, and it is not what it seems!

“This is not Megatron masquerading as Unicron… it is _Unicron masquerading as Megatron_.”

As Optimus Prime looked up in horror, the abomination before him began to laugh.


End file.
